29: Chaos and Tracy
by Math Girl
Summary: Time has passed and much has changed on Tracy Island.  The remaining sons and their children regroup after shake-up and tragedy, continuing Jeff Tracy's dream.
1. Chapter 1

**1: Chaos and Tracy**

…Well, they just went together, it seemed; kind of like Tracy and money. Sure, her family was loaded. Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy would have needed three sets of arms to juggle all the noughts in her trust fund. Packed with relatives, too. With her at Wharton that year were her brother, Ian (about whom she worried, a _lot),_ her cousin Claire (who you wanted to strangle one minute and hug like a sister, the next) and Ricky, who was an uncle, actually, and thought that one-and-a-half years made him some kind of patriarch. _Urghh!_

On top of all this there was Fermat, who wasn't related at all, but might as well have been. Even his friends, Daniel and Sam, had been sort of adopted. The rest of her family were mostly uncles, and far off… or dead; killed in action like Virgil and Gordon. Bitter and hard to talk to, like Scott, or off racing cars like Alan. (Who wasn't likely to settle down, ever. Just saying, is all.)

As for her own mom and dad… Deep space is a hazardous place, you know? And nothing's as cold as the dark between stars. Were they dead? Maybe, but Janey chose to believe otherwise. More than that, she'd made Ian believe with her, too. Lost. That's how Jane chose to look at the situation. They were lost, and would someday return.

So, to sum up, she was fourteen years old that spring, and an honours upperclassman. Universities were baying and snapping at her heels like a pack of starving hounds, sending her all kinds of post-cards and love-notes. She was right at the edge of her life. All full of scary, pent-breath potential; poised to take flight or to crash.

Mostly, her family's lawyers and security team did a good job of keeping reporters and curiosity seekers out of her way, but no one could stop other kids from being total butt-heads. Ian took it hard when the other guys mentioned Mars, or the Grand Canyon disaster. So did Claire, for that matter, but where Ian turned quiet and inward, Claire would start busting heads and wind up in the office, again. The name 'Tracy' only went so far, and 11-year-old Claire had become a mainstay in the school's detention hall. She'd even carved her initials in one of the wooden booths, just under her dad's.

In the middle of all this, in a thunderstorm of gossip and notoriety, Janey was simply trying to get herself educated, hang on to what remained of her family, and maybe get Michael James Hamilton to notice her existence. Yeah… that, and survive another lunch-time seat scramble. Wharton was supposed to be civilized, but speaking as a teen-aged girl, there were claws and cold shoulders hidden behind all that monogrammed upper-crustery.

Anyhow, on this particular afternoon, Janey entered the big stone dining hall, got her food and then stood looking around for snake-pits and allies. Exhibit A: the teachers' duty table, staffed with a revolving selection of sharp-eyed instructors. Exhibit B: the roving proctors, always ready with demerits and reprimands. Exhibit C: the chic-girls' table, filled with divas and fashion mavens who could transform a boring old school uniform with Hermes scarves, alligator belts and a sprinkle of diamonds. Janey had diamonds, in the form of an Orion brooch that she sometimes wore in her shoulder-length, taffy-blonde hair. Not in the dining hall, though. Only at the last Christmas ball, along with a floor-length blue gown. Michael had said she looked "hot" at that dance… but then he'd laughed, so Janey wasn't sure what to think, or to hope for.

Queen of the diva table was Andrea Springfield, a tall and willowy brunette who smoked contraband cigarettes behind the library and had several magazine covers to her name. Jane didn't fit that set, or that attitude, so she wove her way on through a cloud of warm food smells and clattering china.

Wharton Academy had loosened up enough to let in their first class of females five years before, but that didn't mean that the sexes were allowed to mingle. The male and female regions were sharply marked off, and even in class they could not sit together. Bad for morale, the headmaster claimed.

Since all she could do was signal, Janey nodded across the dining room at Ricky, who gave her a brief grin and _I'm-too-cool-for-all-this_ sort of wave. With him sat Dalton Steele and Tad Hamilton, Mike's older brother, so Janey first frowned, then smiled back. Fermat was seated a bit farther on, whispering with Ian, Daniel and Sam. The four were thick as thieves and always up to mischief. Janey smiled their way, as well, hoping that no further "all-A" grade book hacks or month-long macaroni-and-cheese menu shuffles got perpetrated. (Speaking of which, her food was getting cold, and hadn't been much to begin with.)

Skirting the athletes' area, Jane returned a few casual waves and then walked to the long wooden table nearest the row of pointed bay windows. The view there was pretty, for one thing. Lawn sprinklers stuttered and chattered outside, casting dozens of fractured rainbows. She could see her apple tree, too; the one Janey often climbed up in, to read and think.

"Hey, girl," said Regina Steele, sliding over on the bench to make room for Jane. She was Dalton's little sister and looked like him, too; with the same narrow face, dark hair and fierce gaze. "How's life in the big city?"

Jane rolled her eyes and sat down.

"Trig is kicking my butt, and if I don't manage to gain weight, I'll be cut from the volleyball team. Oh, and that creeper news-van was back again, yesterday. You know? The one with the camera mast and tinted windows…?"

Reggie made a face. She and her brother weren't famous, like the Tracys, but they were more than wealthy enough to be constantly wary of kidnap attempts.

"There's no candy in the van, so just keep to this side of the property line, Jane. They can't come across or they'll get arrested. Dad told me so, and… _Sharie, over __here__!"_

This last was more of a hiss than a shout. Raising one's voice was not encouraged at Wharton, except for lacrosse and field-hockey games and Halloween bonfires. But Sharie Vandenberg was a friend, famous (like Janey, Ian, Ricky and Claire) for her interesting parents. She needed a safe place to eat, hang out and escape all those speculative looks. This was especially important as she didn't have any brothers or sisters and rarely went home, being a year-round border.

"Bonjour," she chirped as she plunked herself down, practicing her French. "Comment c'etait ton… um… ton… phantome?"

"How was my ghost?" Regina translated, hoisting an eyebrow. "Fine, I guess, for a departed spirit."

Sharie blushed.

"I _meant_ to say: how was your lunch," she explained with a shrug, adding, "I should have taken Sign Language, or something."

Her mother was Cassie Peak, a former pop-star who'd reinvented herself as a best selling historical novelist. Her father… no joke… was the viceroy of some tiny, land-locked European country that no one could find on the map without a magnifying glass. For all of that, Sharie seemed pretty grounded, preferring to huddle with Jane and Reggie rather than push all that ancestry around. The three had a lot in common, but where Jane stood apart was in here, now, pain-in-the-butt-cheek relatives.

They hadn't been talking long when Claire rushed through the doors, still in her field-hockey uniform (_there'd_ be a few more demerits… not that a daughter of Gordon would care). Not being an upperclassman, she couldn't eat with Janey, Regina and Sharie, but she did give them a cheerful salute before heading right over to the snack line.

Sure enough, a proctor stopped Claire well short of her goal, frigidly pointing out the girl's grass-stained uniform, scraped knees and muddy cleats. Auburn-haired Claire posed as dramatically as a martyr and started arguing, causing several teachers to look up from their duty table across the stone hall.

Janey got to her feet.

"Guess I'd better go over," she muttered, thinking that the last thing Uncle Scott needed was another phone call from Wharton. Over on the boys' end, Ricky, too, had stood up.

"Need some back-up?" offered Regina, starting to rise. "My dad's so rich, he's got regular rich people orbiting him, and even his lawyers have lawyers."

Janey paused, but shook her head, no.

"Thanks, Reggie, but I think between me and Rick, we can handle this. Tracys stick together, no matter what."

Always had, and always would. Right to the end.


	2. 2: Troubled Past

Me, again!

**2: Troubled Past**

_Wharton Academy in upstate New York-_

See, the thing about friends was, being stubborn and liking you, they hardly ever listened when told to wait behind. The Tracy family had long made a habit of facing danger for the sake of others, and they tended to attract people who were just as brave and pig-headed.

Lunch forgotten, Janey stalked across that noisy stone dining hall, intending to yank her young cousin Claire out of whatever mischief she'd landed in, this time. Like her father, Gordon, Claire tended to act first and think… Well, _eventually;_ usually whilst getting bandaged, dosed and micro-healed. Needless to say, in an atmosphere as genteel and stuffy as Wharton's, this sort of behavior attracted unending trouble.

Auburn-haired and passionate, Claire almost never backed down from a fight, and now she stood toe-to-to with the lunch proctor, Mr. August Peavey.

"It's halftime. I missed breakfast this morning, and I've gotta hurry! You want me to collapse and _die_ out there? Right on the field? In front of millions and millions of people? I need sustenance, or I can't play for Wharton. Understand?"

Right. Polite and soft-spoken, Claire Tracy was not. (Numerically accurate, either.) Rick had approached from the opposite side of the hall, a little more slowly than Jane.

Compact, athletic and wiry, he was a handsome Eurasian and Janey's adopted uncle. Very popular, too, and anxious not to seem overly vexed by all this. Bad for the image, you understand.

"Mr. Peavey!" he said with a smile, clapping a hand to the fuming old proctor's thin shoulder. "Good to see you! Did you know there's a plot to sneak through the old steam tunnels and into the girls' dorm tomorrow night? The break-in team's got a set of custodian keys and a map, is what I heard."

Peavey, who'd been about to tap a score of demerits onto his discipline smart-pad, stopped short. He was a thin, balding man with yellow-brown eyes and an uncertain temper.

"Is there, indeed?" he snapped, forgetting all about Claire and her muddy red uniform. "Well, we'll see about _that_."

Turning on his heel, the old man headed straight for the teacher's duty-table, where Ms. Harper and Mr. Van Brunt were pretending to ignore the commotion.

"Is there really another raid in the works?" Janey whispered to Rick, as Fermat and Ian came over.

Ricky shrugged.

"Probably. It's pretty much all the other guys think about, besides sports and copying the smart kids' homework."

"Uncle Ricky… you _lied?"_ Claire gasped, widening her brown eyes dramatically.

"Nope," Rick told her, smiling like a satisfied cat. "I just _expanded._ Never met a truth I couldn't make more exciting, or a situation I couldn't get out of. Rub my arm, kiddo, and you might catch some of that ol' Tracy luck."

Fermat had brought an un-tasted cheese sandwich with him, Ian a cellophane bag of potato chips. Both gave their snack-line treasures to Claire.

"Here," said Fermat, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Y- You'd better t- take these and go, Claire, b- before Mr. Van Brunt r- runs out of distractions and has… has t- to come over."

Ian nodded agreement, reddening just a bit at the sight of Sharie Vandenberg (who'd tagged along with Regina Steele and his sister, Jane).

"On the bright side," Ian told them all, shaking a bit of pale hair from his eyes, "Van Brunt hates paperwork. If you hurry, he'll most likely let it all go."

But Claire was still scowling.

"I could've _died_ out there. Perished from hunger," she objected, being still in the mood for battle.

"Yeah, and if you don't hurry back before halftime's over, coach'll break a hockey-stick over your head. Beat it, Drama Queen," Janey urged, clapping her hands with a sharp smack, as though shooing a balky calf. At the rear of the dining hall, meanwhile, Ms. Harper and Mr. Van Brunt had reluctantly started to rise.

"Okay. Gotta run."

Mercurial Claire grinned at her cousins, uncle and friends. Then she shifted her grip on the sandwich and chips, hugged Janey tight and darted away to safety.

"That girl," said Rick, watching as Claire scampered off through a side-door, "is going to get us all expelled, one of these days."

"Or else _we_ will," Ian muttered uneasily, looking down at the floor with both hands thrust deep in his pockets.

Fermat dug an elbow into the skinny boy's ribs, trying to make the movement look accidental. Not at all fooled, Rick and Jane exchanged weary glances.

"What is it _this_ time?" Ricky demanded, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. Fermat shifted his stance under that gaze like a sailor on a rapidly swamping rowboat.

"Nothing," he said. "Or… n- nothing much. Except th- that there's a p- project we could… could use s- some help with. Me, Ian, Daniel and Sam, that is."

By this time, Reggie had consulted her gold Rolex Oyster. (Had to, because smart phones were officially banned outside of the dorms.)

"Ten minutes to class, folks. Better gulp something down and get going, or your bellies will be rumbling too loudly to hear the professor."

She and Sharie wandered on back to their food, but Janey lingered, interested in the brain-trust's latest escapade. Both annoyed and relieved at having to explain the plan, Fermat gave Ian a very sharp glare.

"Okay, y- you know all that old s- science and history stuff in… in the admin center's main c- collection?"

"Like the big pendulum and planet-thing, you mean?" Janey supplied.

"E- Exactly," Fermat nodded. "Well, down at the very back, in th- this moldy old… old d- display case, there's a c- corroded mass of gears and r- ratchets that we think is… is an ancient c- computing device. We w- want to sneak in, use our smart phones to scan it, and th- then… produce blueprints and…"

"Reconstruct a working model," Ian finished for his friend, grey eyes all at once lighting with interest. "Partly for tech class, but mostly because it's just cool."

"Cell phones aren't allowed outside of the dorms," Ricky objected, absently reaching into the right pocket of his uniform pants to make sure that his own was shut off.

"I know," Fermat assured him, as the first bell chimed and students began rising to collect utensils and plates. "That's w- why we n- need a distraction. I c- can whip out my phone real quick, with Ian, S- Sam and Daniel standing by as a human s- screen, but the caretaker has… has an electronics monitor board; Tracy Aerospace t- tech. If you guys c- came into the room, then d- did something t- typically noisy, he might l- leave his board, and then I could s- scan the… the device without b- being detected."

Janey frowned. She knew the scanning app that Fermat and Ian intended to run, because she and the boys had come up with it themselves, last summer. There wasn't much else to do on Tracy Island these days besides dodge all those unwanted memories. For some reason, she said,

"Sure, we'll go along. Right, Ricky?"

Her uncle sighed gustily.

"I was planning to run for class president," he objected, a little plaintively.

"Over-rated," Ian told him. "Statistically speaking, former class presidents often go on to burn out, embezzle company funds and flee to the Greek Isles under an assumed name."

"Seriously?" Rick probed (he had no head at all for figures).

"No. I just made that up, but it sounds good. The important thing is: you're better off chasing adventure than fitting yourself for a brief-case and necktie, Ricky."

All of them nodded, thinking of their uncles' various fates. Who was better off in the long run? Gordon and Virgil, who'd died doing what they loved? Or Scott, left behind to remember?

The dining hall had all but cleared, and the proctors were shooing stragglers toward the wide-open doors and afternoon sunshine.

"Meet us by th- the admin building b- before dinner," hissed Fermat, as they hurried along with the rest.

Feeling twenty sorts of idiot (and a little excited, too) Janey nodded assent. Her dad would've done it. So would her mom. And Kara Jane-Ellen was nothing, if not a Tracy.

XXX

_Later-_

All through her afternoon classes, Janey mused on the past, a subject she normally tried to avoid. AP Chemistry, World History and Phys Ed went by in a blur, while (thanks to her distant thoughts) Jane fell even further behind in trigonometry.

Might have been all the talk of cell phones that triggered her sudden flood of memories. Janey still had her father's phone number programmed on her favorites list. Her mother's, too. Worse, from time to time she still called them both, listening to the voice prompts and leaving short texts. Their last, cheerful message was saved and backed-up; not just to Jane's phone, but her computer and i-Pad, as well. Pathetic, right?

But she'd never been able to let it all go. Uncle Scott had the company to run and reporters to battle. Alan (he never liked "Mr. Tracy" or "Uncle Alan" and wouldn't answer to either) had car-racing. The kids had each other, and memory.

Claire had been six years old when that horrible, sabotaged mission had killed her father and Uncle Virgil. Jane had been just shy of nine. Eight, when her own parents had vanished on a doomed Deimos-recon assignment. She had the most to remember and miss and not talk about, ever.

None of this related to Fermat and Ian's dumb admin espionage idea, though. How could it? That ancient, rusty mass of gears and cam-shafts was as impotent to solve Janey's heartache as a briskly-rubbed lamp. But something would, someday. She had to believe that, and keep going, because that's what a Tracy did.

Anyhow, the towering, columned admin building stood at the top of the main quadrangle; the first building visitors saw when driving up along Wharton's broad, curving access road. There had used to be plenty of old-growth forest around, screening the school from public attention, but most of that land belonged to developers, now. Civilization had drawn ever closer, creeping up like the tide.

Janey crept, too; trying real hard to look casual. She had an excuse in mind, should somebody challenge her presence. Schedule changes. She needed to concentrate on Mathematics next semester, and wanted to drop her planned World Literature course. That would mean seeing her guidance counselor, who was… you guessed it… right there in the admin building, third floor. A plausibly elegant tale, like all the best lies.

Dinner was being prepared in the school's big kitchen, and Jane sniffed appreciatively as she loitered on the administration building's stone-columned portico. Waiting for the others, she pretended to search through her leather satchel for her schedule card. A few teachers and proctors hurried by, but nobody questioned her; fooled by Janey's bent head and intent scowl.

At one point, the dean of girls came near, but all she did was give a brusque nod and say,

"Good afternoon, Ms. Tracy," before walking on past. Ms. Burnett was a large, no-nonsense woman of African descent. Able to spot foolishness a mile away, she was no one to lightly tangle with.

"Good afternoon, Dean Burnett. Have a nice dinner."

"You, too. And keep that pestiferous clan of yours in check, if you please."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll try!" Janey lied brightly.

Only after the dangerous woman had gone did Fermat and Ian emerge from the shadows, followed shortly by Sam and Daniel. All four looked as furtive and wicked as thieves, and Daniel had even donned camouflage.

_"Really?"_ Janey fussed, staring at her young co-conspirators. _"This_ is what you call clandestine?"

"Hey, when you're on a spy mission, you dress for success," replied Daniel Solomon, who was blonder than Ian and somewhat pudgy. "But being a girl, you wouldn't know that."

Jane would have verbally handed the smug little fellow his butt, except that Ricky came sauntering across the grassy, sunlit quad with his friends, Tad and Webb.

"Right. Catch you guys later," he told them, halting in front of the suddenly popular admin center. "I've got to pick up a class-officer application and clear up some discipline issues. You know how it is."

He made it look so _easy._ Tad grinned at Ricky and the gathered others, saying,

"See you at dinner, Rick. Have fun child-minding."

…and how anyone that obnoxious could be related to the awesomely god-like Michael James Hamilton, Jane couldn't fathom.

_Jerk, _she thought, pasting a smile on her face. At Tad's side, tall, swarthy Webb gave Janey a sudden wink.

"I'll take over, if you get tired," he offered, still looking at Jane (who blushed like a stop-light). "…Then again, looks like you're on your own, buddy. See ya."

For Claire had come bounding across the lawn, ignoring all the hedges and arrow-straight paths to loop once or twice around Josiah Wharton's red granite statue. Wonderful. Ricky's friends lit out before Claire reached the area, not wishing to deal with a small, auburn hurricane.

"Hi, guys!" the girl exclaimed breathlessly, on reaching their meeting spot. "What's up? I had this weird feeling, like… y'know… a hunch, and sure enough, here you all are. What've you got planned? A prison break? Sneaking upstairs to order pizza? It's sirloin tips and asparagus tonight, so I don't blame you for trying to leave."

"It's a secret operation, Claire," Fermat informed her gloomily. "Or, it used to be."

"Now it's more like a circus," said Ian, trying to ignore all those beckoning food smells. He'd given part of his lunch to Claire, after all.

"The quicker started, the sooner finished," Sam reminded them gently, glancing at his watch. "The administration center closes at five."

"Ooh… and it's haunted!" said Claire, wriggling her fingers dramatically. "We don't want to get locked in!"

Or be caught imaging antiquities with contraband technology, either; but still, inward they went, filing through a set of carved wooden doors almost twice as tall as Janey. Directly inside lay a marble-floored foyer lined with padded stone benches and even more doors. One of these brass-plaqued doorways led to a room containing Wharton's extensive collection of historical and scientific oddments. Beyond that, a wide stone staircase curled up and away, leading to the guidance and deans' offices.

"Okay," said Fermat to Rick, Jane and Claire, when a quick, nervous glance showed the hall to be largely deserted. "You three w- wait a few seconds, then come… c- come in and make s- some noise to distract th- the caretaker."

Ricky looked pained, but he nodded anyhow. That necktie crack had really gotten to him.

"Understood."

"F.A.B.," Claire corrected. When everyone turned to look at her, she added, "That's what my dad used to say, and most of yours, too. F… A… B… Only, he wouldn't tell me what it stood for."

Feeling a sudden rush of affection, Jane mussed the girl's thick auburn hair.

"F.A.B. it is, Clairey-girl. Ready to show off your worst museum manners, ever?"

"You betcha!" Claire replied wickedly. "That caretaker's about to collapse in a frothing heap!"

Suppressing a storm of excited tics and wriggles, Fermat, Sam, Ian and Daniel opened the door to Wharton's antiquities room, and slipped within. Jane, Rick and Claire waited a full ten-count, and then five seconds more for good luck. Then, trying to look utterly harmless, they sauntered in after the boys.

What were the odds, that things would go weird on them, almost right from the start?


	3. 3: Buried Memory

Thanks, Tikatu, Bee, Sam and BubzeChoc, for your recent kind reviews. Will do some reading and responding myself, soon. It's just been a bear, with all the career evaluations and meetings to prep for. Still having fun, though! Will edit tomorrow.

**3: Buried Memory**

_Wharton Academy, at the Admin Building-_

Wharton's collection of wonders ranged all the way from Alexander Hamilton's second-best dueling pistols to astronaut Jeff Tracy's Omega Skymaster wrist-watch. Mixed right alongside them were leather-bound volumes in Masonic code, mesmeric pendulums and gemstone models of the solar system. Mars, done in bright-polished sandstone, was Janey's particular favourite (though the planet had cost her so much).

The collection had been housed in several places on campus, starting with the headmaster's house, then the library, finally ending up _here,_ in a towering building of stone. Several large rooms had been allotted to the collection, which grew bulkier each time a wealthy alumnus died or retired.

Fermat, Ian, Sam and Daniel had slipped into the collection rooms first, looking as innocent as a handful of hackers could manage. The others… Janey, her young cousin Claire and not-very-old uncle Ricky… waited a couple of jittering heartbeats before following them within.

The heavy oak door swung noiselessly open when Rick pushed on its shiny brass contact plate. That didn't mean that they'd got in unnoticed, though. Instead, as Fermat had predicted, a light flared at once on the caretaker's podium-mounted console, which stood five or six steps from the door.

The caretaker was Mr. Blaise Grinder, a former history teacher and classics professor. Tall and stout, Grinder regarded these artifacts as his own priceless treasures, and he had no patience at all for curious, noisy, destruction-bent kids.

He'd been shadowing the boys like a family curse. Then Ricky opened the door, dividing the caretaker's attention. More than dividing, actually, because into that softly lit, fusty-hued world of display cases and beige carpeting came a sudden tornado of Tracys.

Auburn-haired Claire bounced, squealed and pointed, acting like a pre-teen wrecking ball. Weaving from this aisle to that, she read off each placard in high, piercing tones, deliberately smudging the glass with finger- and nose-prints. Ricky slouched around with his hands in his pockets, meanwhile, smacking away on a wad of forbidden chewing gum. Every once in awhile, he blew and popped a bubble nearly as big as his head, spraying the nearby artifacts with a fine mist of spittle and wintergreen.

What was Janey doing in the midst of all this, as old Mr. Grinder pivoted on one heel and advanced like a battleship? To tell the truth, she sort of froze, at first; being far too well-raised to act up in public. Then Grinder charged forward, reaching a meaty, hairy-backed hand to seize Claire, and the "proper miss" spell was shattered.

"Oops!" she cried loudly, pretending to trip and stagger toward the case containing Amelia Earhart's leather-bound flight log. "My bad!"

Janey allowed herself to nudge the glass a little, triggering a flat-toned alarm. Romulus Augustulus, beset by roaring barbarians, could not have looked more stricken than poor Mr. Grinder. He made a noise like a slowly leaking bicycle tire and then dove forward, turning more shades of unhealthy purple than Janey could count. Heh! Mission accomplished.

Meanwhile, Fermat had darted to the very back of the room with Ian, Daniel and Sam. He already had his contraband smart phone in hand; switched on and ready to go. So far, so good, but at any moment, Fermat expected to feel Mr. Grinder's big paw on his shoulder, and he was sweating enough to fog up his glasses. Ian managed to scurry along with his friend, but Sam and Daniel were too busy scanning for cameras to match Fermat's pace.

Probably, there were electronic-device warnings going off all over Grinder's console. From the sound of things, though, he was far too busy to notice.

"Hey!" Ricky shouted, loud as an outraged sports fan. "Isn't this a _public_ collection? And didn't my father donate half of this junk to Wharton in the first place?"

"One eigh_teenth_," seethed Grinder, from somewhere just beyond sight. "And that doesn't mean that the lot of you can…"

Fermat stopped listening then, for his objective was dead ahead, smack in the '_frankly, we just don't know'_ section. About as big as a man's spread hand it was, nestled in fitted dark velveteen, like the parts of Fermat's saxophone. There was security glass, of course, but that didn't matter. Lifting his smart phone, Fermat thumb-keyed the scanning app he'd come up with last summer. Then he aimed his phone at the corroded mass of ratchets and gears and might've-been batteries.

Ian was supposed to be doing the very same thing, but he'd gotten distracted by a suit of battered Samurai armour. Entranced, the blond young Tracy scanned this, instead.

Not that it mattered. Fermat's phone emitted a string of shrill scanning pulses, raking the maybe-computer atom by atom. More than that, the app began assembling a virtual 3-D model, because that's what Fermat, Ian and Janey had coded their program to do: analyze and build. Worked great with toasters, cars, laptops and wrist-comms… but ancient computing assemblies…?

"Whoa!" Fermat gasped, as his smart phone began to shimmer and vibrate, almost right out of his hand. "W- What's happening?"

It stopped, is what happened; and by "it", Fermat meant everything other than Ian, Daniel, Sam and the other young Tracys.

"Huh…?" he heard Ricky blurt out. "Mr. Grinder…? Sir…? Can you hear me?"

And then came Janey's sharp voice, saying,

"Ian, Fermat, what did you _do_? What's going on, over there?"

Good question. His smart phone had apparently scanned the ancient computing device and constructed a virtual replica linked to the phone's memory, address book and subroutines. Then his phone started to shudder and glow, vibrating out of the boy's hands like a slippery bass. Nor did the weirdness end there. Fermat's phone hadn't crashed to the carpeted floor; instead it hovered before them, held up by nothing the boys could detect.

They were wide-eyed with shock and confusion; startled speechless when a powerful scanning wave shot from the phone like a brilliant red laser-sphere. There was no time to run or to holler for help. Barely time for tightly shut eyes. The sphere expanded soundlessly onward, tingling just a bit as it passed through the boys.

Janey, Rick and Claire came barreling over a few moments later, just in time to be scanned to their back teeth and particles. Strangely, though, nothing else moved. Even the air was still, with dust motes suspended like bubbles in glass.

Cried Janey, just a little panicked,

"Ian, are you okay? Ian…?"

"Yeah, I think so," her brother replied, looking like a short, big-eyed version of their dad.

Janey ran over to him, clutching Ian by the shoulders to give him a Tracy-style shake.

"What did you _do? _Grinder's frozen in mid-snort like a statue!"

"An ugly, purple-faced statue," Claire put in, with some satisfaction. "He looks just as silly as someone you freeze on the TV, but at least he's quiet."

"Yeah, but we can't leave him that way," Ricky objected, pulling his 'older-guy' privilege card. "What if somebody heard all the noise and comes looking?"

What if the smart phone- turned- ancient device began flashing and speaking in icy tones; trying one language after another until it arrived at standard American English?

_'Alert. You have accessed Nexus Central Authority's after-time help desk. Please state your request within the next ten units, or this link will be severed. Repeat: you have…'_

Ever have one of those jump/ don't-jump moments, when you could leap a vast chasm to safety, if only you scraped up the guts?

"Wait, who are you?" Janey called out, before the others could speak. For a few seconds, the weirdly flat voice fell silent. Then,

_'You have accessed Nexus Central Authority. The concepts you are perceiving as speech, gesture or image have not been produced by a sentient entity. This is time-after, and no one remains. Do you require a species-specific avatar?'_

Jane glanced in turn at Ricky, Ian, Claire and Fermat, whose eyes were shining with interest. Sam and Daniel were too busy recording the whole thing on their smart phones to meet Janey's gaze, but even they seemed intrigued. Heck of a tech project.

It was Claire… fists on her hips and chin outthrust… who answered the co-opted phone, saying,

"Yes, please. We need something friendly and… blue. Blue's my favourite colour. Make the avatar blue."

The hovering smart phone beeped once, and then emitted a fast stream of shimmering pixels. These roiled and drifted like smoke, coalescing atop a case of old weapons.

Janey and Rick stepped forward at once, unconsciously protective of the young ones. Their shadows wavered and spattered behind them, looking almost alive. What formed from that odd mist of pixels was no monster, though, but a comforting childhood icon; Crunchy Bear, from off of their morning cereal box. Blue, as Claire had requested.

Ricky rolled his dark eyes, but Janey muttered,

"Could be worse. Could've been My Little Pony."

Probably, the help desk had scanned Claire's mind for the image, and no doubt the computer intelligence meant well. It was difficult to hold a conversation with Crunchy Bear and stay serious, though.

_'Is this avatar satisfactory?'_ asked the glittering cartoon animal, from its perch on a case full of scepters and swords.

"Works for me," Claire responded, looking mischievous. "Okay, so… you said you're a "help desk". What kind of help can you give? Like, with homework or tips on the other team, and stuff?"

Rick hauled the girl backward, unwilling to let his red-haired scamp of a niece take over.

"What she means is, what are we allowed to ask for?" he cut in, triggering a 3-dimensional, all-senses advert that felt like it took fifteen minutes, but probably skimmed through their minds between heartbeats.

_'…data retrieval and timeline stabilization a priority,' _it finished up, after showers of colour and sound had just about mowed their grey matter. _'Removal of alien universe influence handled at need. Multiverse coordination and thermodynamic alignment upon receipt of the proper forms.'_

Right… Deeply weird stuff, coming from Crunchy Bear, who normally sang about tasty nutrition. Janey had other concerns, though.

"Could you show me my mom and dad?" she asked the fluffy blue icon, fighting to sound casual. "I mean… if they're alive, still?"

"Me, too!" piped Claire all at once. "I want to see Daddy, again!"

Crunchy Bear chimed, and a narrow band of processing dots began crossing his broad, sugar-packed belly. Then a second chime sounded, just as a pair of bright windows flashed up in the artifact room's dusty air.

One window opened onto the flight deck of a WSA scout ship. Stilled and muted, the scene showed four astronauts in minute detail, down to their nametapes and worried expressions. Except for her dad, that is. Even in the black, curving throat of disaster, John Tracy would always seem calm. Beside him, half-turned as though speaking to the navigator, Linda Bennett Tracy stood with furrowed brow and partly raised hand.

Janey had to fight the whimper that was clawing its way up from the pit of her belly… but Claire was even worse off, for the other window displayed the inside of Thunderbird 2, just before the end of things.

"Daddy…" Claire whispered, stumbling forward a little. "Uncle Virge."

Flames were frozen in twisting mid-leap, smoke in mid-billow. And right in the middle were two men… one badly injured… fighting to make it to safety.

Claire Tracy did something, then, that she hadn't done in a very long time. She put her thumb in her mouth. It was Ricky who turned her away from the terrible scene and pulled the stunned girl-child against him.

"S'okay, Clairey… you got this." He patted her shoulder, much as Ian and Fermat were doing for Jane. "It isn't anything we didn't already know, Angel-girl."

"Could you not mend it, though?" Sam Nakamura inquired, bowing a little by way of apology. "If this is truly a multiverse help desk we have gained access to, then might not these missions be altered?"

As one of Fermat's best friends, he knew that the Tracys had built and run International Rescue, no matter how clever a cover story Scott, Jeff and Spectrum had woven to shield the survivors.

_'Insufficient credit accumulated by Richard Tracy, Fermat-Kurt Hackenbacker-Bremmerman. Insufficient credit accumulated by Daniel Solomon, Samuel-Hiro Nakamura- No Fujiwara. Negative credit balance possessed by Jane Tracy, Ian Tracy.'_

"What about Claire?" Janey snapped, tearing her gaze away from her long-away, far-ago parents. "You haven't said anything about Clairey!"

That processing bar flared across Crunchy Bear's tummy again, after the usual chime. Then it said,

_'Credit exists in the account of Claire Angelica Tracy. Credit accrues in the form of three wishes owed to the heir of Gawain, Lot's son, of Midworld.'_

Three wishes? Like in a fairy tale? And who the heck was Gawain? Claire opened her mouth to start making demands, but Rick and the others lunged like a volley of arrows to stifle her. Only Mr. Grinder seemed uninterested… but he was still purple and frozen.

Janey's heart was hammering fit to burst right out of her uniformed chest. Deep in thought, she hardly felt Claire's outraged squirming. Three wishes from _where?_ How? And… more importantly… if all of this weren't some kind of crazy weird dream, what was the best way to use them?


	4. 4: Payback

Bit more. Thanks for reading and reviewing, Bee, Bubzchoc and Tikatu! =)

**4: Payback**

_Wharton Academy, in one of the musty old artifact rooms-_

Jane stared hard at the fifth wall, thinking like wildfire. She and Ricky had grabbed tight hold of Claire, who otherwise would've started belting out wishes like a toddler at Nordstrom's. Certainly, everyone else had something to say.

"What d'you mean 'heir of Gawain'?" Ricky demanded, ignoring the pain of a bitten finger. "Claire's dad was my brother, Gordon. Her grandpas are Jeff and Kyrano. We don't know any 'Gawains'."

"Are there any wish limits?" probed Daniel, obviously thinking big. But Ian, Janey's brother, only wanted to know,

"Why do we have a negative balance?" (Like his father, the boy had a good head for money.)

Fortunately, their Crunchy Bear avatar was able to handle the verbal flood.

_'Taken in turn: Gawain was a translocated being who came to this realm after saving both it, and his own. The vital spirit of this transplanted entity later returned Gordon Tracy to life. Credit for these deeds and several others has never been claimed. As the offspring of Gordon Tracy, conceived after the events described, Claire Tracy is legally permitted to claim the reward.'_

Now the glowing blue avatar shifted its cartoon-eyed focus to Daniel Solomon, who stood there amid the dusty artifacts looking like a boy who'd just tumbled into his favourite video game.

_'Balance must be maintained across the multiverse, Daniel Solomon. A credit earned may be spent, but not exceeded. The saving of two realms and an additional innocent life have produced considerable imbalance. Therefore it is desirable that the matter be dealt with expeditiously.'_

Daniel nodded as if he really grasped all of that, but it was the next answer which most concerned Janey. Turning to regard her brother Ian, the cereal-box avatar said,

_'The trans-dimensional entity John Tracy has been charged repeatedly with confusing timelines and merging parallel realms. That a construct of his was largely to blame does not absolve John Tracy of guilt. Nexus Central Authority regulations forbid charging offspring with the crimes of their parents, so you are not required to make good this debt.'_

"But… if we did?" ventured Jane, releasing the now silent (and goggle-eyed) Claire, "Could we get dad off the hook for whatever he did? Get him and mom back?"

Ricky had another thought. Following Janey's lead, he released Claire and said,

"After-time help desk, huh? How much after time? That mechanism Fermat scanned was pretty old. What d'you think, Ferms…? Thousand years, maybe two?"

Fermat squinted at the mass of corrosion which still lay cupped in dark velvet before them.

"Two thousand, at l- least," he decided, looking back over at Rick. "Th- That's bronze, n- not… iron or steel."

The older boy nodded gravely, but with a gleam of churning thought behind his big, slightly slanted, dark eyes.

"So, this transmitter-thing's been out of commission for awhile, and when it calls home at last in virtual mode, nobody's there to pick up."

_'None remain,'_ the Crunchy Bear icon confirmed, still in that calm, chilly voice. Only Sam and poor Mr. Grinder were less animated.

"So how do we know there's anyone left to take orders?" Ricky completed his thought, looking quite serious.

_'The essential balance of the multiverse is a thermodynamic process,'_ said Crunchy Bear, speaking through still air and non-time. _'All that is required for the system to run is a properly phrased and pass-keyed request.'_

Janey blinked, still feeling that she was in one of those dreams she'd kept having for years after her mom and dad disappeared. The one where she could hear Ian playing in the backyard with their dog, Rusty, and dad just coming in through the door with a bag full of dinner. (Mom had never been much of a cook.) In a waver-y voice, she said,

"It's up to Clairey, right? She's the one who has to ask, because none of the rest of us have any credit." (And whoever that Gawain guy was, she hoped that he had his own cheerful corner of Heaven, with everyone he'd ever loved and missed there to hug his neck and say "welcome back".)

Claire glanced up at her blonde older cousin, who was trying real hard not to cry. She looked at Ricky, who wasn't much like an uncle… and Ian, who'd folded his arms and gone sort of blank. No one was holding her back, now, or trying to stop her mouth up. Instead, like Fermat, Daniel and Sam, they just waited and watched.

"Before I make any decisions," she said, twisting her hands in the way that her mother hated, "could one single wish bring everyone back? I mean, dad, Uncle John, Uncle Virge and Aunt Linda, too?"

_'Negative,'_ said the avatar. _'Wishes may be used to transfer items across space, reverse a finite amount of time or positively alter the health of a living creature. Resurrection requires the direct intervention of a pan-dimensional entity.'_

"So…" Claire went on, "I couldn't just wish everyone safe, but I could turn time back and maybe go to when everything went wrong and… and then…"

"Find a way to fix what happened," Ricky finished for his niece, putting a tense hand on her shoulder. "All of us could. I mean…" he looked over at Fermat, Daniel and Sam. "If they want to tag along and help out, that is."

"Are you kidding?" blurted Daniel. "Duh! Yes, we want to come! What're we going to miss but snack-time and homework? I've done all of mine, anyway, well into next semester. Give me enough of this null-time to play with, and I'll start on my master's degree!"

"It c- could be dangerous," warned Fermat, adjusting his glasses a little. "Thunderbird 2 was… w- was sabotaged, remember? We w- would be… dealing with c- criminals."

Claire Tracy's whole face and stance altered, then. Her tawny brown eyes widened and her nostrils flared.

"I want to deal with them," she whispered. "For what they did to our family. And I want to get my dad and Uncle Virgil back safe, and then Uncle John and Aunt Linda. After that's done, I want to put some people in jail, and turn the key myself!"

Sam walked over and took Clairey's hand. Like Fermat, he'd always seemed a little sweet on the Tracy wild-child.

"My mother has told me that once begun, vengeance is a cycle as endless as rebirth. Who will next rise up and take revenge upon you, one might ask?"

But Claire gave her anxious young classmate a savage grin, saying,

"Just some guy in black and white prison stripes, dragging a big ball-and-chain. Trust me, I'll see him coming a mile away, and bash him over the head with my field-hockey stick."

This was an impossible argument to counter, so Sam did what many boys had previously done, and most would later on do: he beat a hasty retreat to the comfort and safety of friends. Daniel welcomed him back with a rueful grimace and back-slap… but Fermat looked worried.

"If w- we're really going to… do th- this," he said, "we m- must clearly think about the… events leading up to th- the… Grand Canyon disaster."

"And we'd sure as heck better be well prepared," added Ricky, looking around at the others. "Anybody else here but me know how to shoot?"

"I do," said Janey, standing a little taller. "I'm on the cross-country winter biathlon team, remember? Ski, shoot and chew gum, all at the same time."

Her heart was pounding in odd little jerks as, for the first time in years, Kara Jane-Ellen felt hope beginning to thaw out and stir.

And, though it hurt very much to do so, Janey cast her mind back through all of those years to the tragic mess in Arizona. To the way they'd been sold by a lying and back-stabbing traitor.

Like Claire, she had things and people to deal with. First Gordon and Virge would be rescued, Jane promised herself, then somehow her mother and dad. After all that, she could relax… but not before Uncle Scott's treacherous "friend" got the rug pulled out from under him, hard.

So many years and so many mental blocks… One by one they faded and fell, bringing everything horribly back. It had started with a phone call, Janey remembered.


	5. 5: Past and Gone Away

Thanks, Bee, Bubzchoc and Sam! Edits and replies forthcoming (but I have to make dinner, first).

**5: Past and Gone Away**

_Manhattan, NY, many years earlier-_

At this point in his life, Scott Tracy was an immensely wealthy and powerful man, owning nearly everything he'd ever wanted (and with most of the rest on order). His office took up not just a corner, but the entire top floor of the lofty Tracy Aerospace building. Literally, the city was spread at his feet; a landscape of craggy grey concrete by day, and a web-work of scurrying lights after sunset. His wardrobe cost more than most men's annual salary, and he could have vacationed on the Moon, if he'd chosen to.

He was handsome, as well, with dark hair only slightly touched by the frost, and eyes of a deep and changeable blue. (Almost purple, at times.) Still tall and athletic, he'd decorated his office with old fighter pilot memorabilia. Wolf Pack insignia, medals, posters, and the like.

A careful observer would have noted few family pictures, but then Scott Aaron Tracy was an intensely private and guarded man. A series of strokes had caused his father, Jeff, to retire from active control of both family businesses, leaving Scott with a burden of responsibility that would have flattened most men.

Had John still been around, things might have gone easier. The heavy load might have shifted, a little. But John Tracy had vanished several years earlier, along with his wife and the rest of the Deimos Mission flight crew. Whereabouts unknown and untraceable, despite all the money and pressure that Scott brought to bear on the World Space Agency.

Virgil and Gordon had concerns of their own; stubbornly carrying on with International Rescue in spite of John's loss and Scott's preoccupation. Their mother helped out, of course, running the desk with TinTin's assistance and Hackenbacker's, while dad "supervised" remotely. He'd type occasional advice for them over the comm screen, but it wasn't the same as having a vigorous, quick-witted former astronaut at the helm. Still, they made do and they made a difference, keeping Jeff's dream more alive than the shell of his body.

Alan was experiencing the usual Tracy "wild phase", just then. They'd all been through it, and no doubt young Ricky would, too, when he reached that age. Scott had been very much the strong-willed fighter-jock, John the left-brained hacker/ genius, Virgil an earthy, roving artist, and Gordon…

Well, between the Olympic swimming career and his turn as a WASP Sky-Diver pilot, Gordon Tracy had cut a vast swathe through the world's under-30 female population. Now it was Alan's turn, and the youngest-Tracy-but-one had become a swaggering race driver. A good one, too; twice winning the Daytona 500 and a very hazardous Round-the-World Road Rally.

Big engines, sleek chassis and golden good looks made for quite an explosive combination, keeping the Tracys' lawyers busier than ever before. Like Scott needed more headaches…

But Alan was due to burn through the hormone surge, soon, if he followed the path of his brothers. By twenty-five years of age, all of them had found a purpose or a woman. Even Gordon. Maybe Al was just waiting for his. In the meantime, Scott was stuck in the Atlas role, bracing to carry what felt like the world.

He'd had a few women in his life, but none of them permanent. Scott guarded his wealth and his heart like he guarded the family's privacy, which is to say: _fiercely._ The one woman who might have got past all that armour was Cindy Anne Taylor. She was a reporter, though, and could not be allowed to set her hooks in him. News-hounds were sneaky and dangerous people, after all. But Scott sometimes wondered what might have happened between them, if he'd been less bound and strapped-up with obligations, and if she'd not been wed to her job.

On the whole, it was a good life, he supposed. Bit lonely, maybe… but there was never much room at the top, and if you chose to live on a mountain peak, you weren't going to have many neighbors. Kids, though… he'd always wanted kids. John'd had two, while Gordon and TinTin had produced one really willful and active small girl; hell on the nannies and furniture, both.

The thought made Scott smile a little, staring out through the transparent window-wall at a busy city, but seeing the island. Maybe, he mused, it was time to head home on vacation. Al Jenkins was more than capable of running the company in Scott's absence.

He was reaching for the phone to call his Bostonian second-in-command, when the slim device gave a short, razzing buzz. Not family. They each had their own ringtone. Not Al or Caroline Jenkins, either, to judge by the area code. Someone who knew, or could get, his private number. Curious, Scott picked up.

"Tracy speaking," he said, being semi-formal (just in case).

_"Scott…? Ranch Hand, that you? It's Bird Dog, your old wingman!"_

Momentarily startled, Scott Tracy sat bolt upright in his Moroccan leather office chair. A huge smile spread over his face like a tropical sunset.

"Bird Dog! Alec Morrissey, you cross-grained, beer-rotted son of a… How the hell are you?"

The other voice held a genuine smile, and the sort of warmth that builds up between men who've fought and flown together for years.

_"Good, good. Frickin' wonderful, in fact! I'm about to get married, Ranch Hand. She's the most beautiful girl in the world… who'd settle for someone like me."_

"Desperate, huh?" Scott excused her. "Or fresh out of prison?"

_"Very funny. You're still a comedian, I see."_

By now, Scott was grinning so hard that his face hurt. God, it was good to hear Alec's voice, again!

"Well, you know… growing up with four brothers…"

_"…And ten-thousand lonely sheep,"_ Alec cut in, striking back a little.

"We're just good friends," Scott protested, with a laugh. Then, changing the subject,

"But, enough about my love life. Congratulations on _yours._ Am I invited to the wedding? Think I may still have a tux, somewhere." (Nearly fifty of them, actually.)

"_Invited, hell! I was hoping you'd sign on to be my best man, Ranch Hand. Can't think of anyone I'd rather risk death with, again."_

Scott blinked his way through a moment of wordless emotion. He'd been one of John's best men, too… along with their father, and Pete McCord. Tough couple of seconds, but he got hold of himself after a few throat-clearings.

"Sure thing, Bird Dog. Name the date and the place. I'll show up with a suit."

"_Shoes, too? I know they run around barefoot and hollerin', out where you're from."_

"Damn! Guess I'd better go shopping!" Scott joked. "Unless you're willing to settle for bow-ties on my bunny slippers."

Over the phone, Alec chuckled.

"_Head for the nearest Wal-Mart, partner… or wherever it is they buy footwear, down yonder."_

There was a little more kidding after that, before Scott thought to ask for the lucky girl's name.

"_Louise,"_ Bird Dog told him, pronouncing it in a way that made music out of a plain, simple name. _"Louise Alice Coates, but she's gonna be Morrissey, soon. I tell you what, Scotty: this is it. She's the one. The real thing. I took one look, and __BAM!__ That's all she wrote. You'll like her, I think… but not __too__ much."_

Scott laughed at his friend's poorly hidden concern.

"Guy code, Bird Dog. Your women and sisters are sacred forever, even if it's Saturday night, and I can't get a date."

"_Date? You? Hell, just shear one of the flock, tie a pink ribbon on her ears, and show up for the wedding. Don't let her catch the bouquet, though. She'll eat it."_

Scott nearly split the top of his head off, grinning like an idiot.

"Damn, it's good to hear from you! Been too long, Bird Dog. Where are you, and when can we get together to plan your funeral?"

"_Wedding! You'll see, Ranch Hand. She's one in ten-million. It isn't just anyone, could convince __me__ to settle down!"_

Nodding warmly, Scott said,

"I believe it, Alec… and I can't wait to meet her. Are you anywhere near New York?"

"_Well, Scotty boy, as it happens…"_

That's how it started, though nobody realized at the time how the puzzle pieces would all come together. Not even Alec Morrissey, Scott's old wingman and drinking buddy. He wasn't aware that he was being manipulated, and wouldn't have believed it if you told him straight to his face. Long range battle plans took awhile, after all, and when the target was as wary and powerful as International Rescue, it was wise to proceed very carefully.

First, by honing and aiming a lovely young woman. Not at Scott Tracy, himself, but an old and trusted friend of his, giving that friend cause to reconnect with the target. Then, through subtle machinations, arranging to have this friend remain in close contact.

Trouble abounded, and IR was clearly short handed, just then. Why _wouldn't_ Scott begin thinking of Bird Dog as a possible operative? All it took was the right dramatic event and a seemingly innocent remark from Louise.

Piecing matters together afterward (and cursing himself for a fool), Scott realized that their meeting at the shore-side restaurant had been as carefully orchestrated as a Wagnerian opera. Alec… sandy-haired and brown-eyed, fit enough for a uniform… had been all smiles from the honeymoon. Blonde Louise had bloomed like a newly-opening rosebud. Clearly, the marriage was a happy one.

They'd had dinner together and then strolled on the beach to enjoy the evening, talking of this and that, and of life in general. Then, just as they drew near enough, someone off shore began shouting for help. An agent of Red Path, Scott later decided. At the time, all that he knew was that somebody needed him.

There weren't any lifeguards about, so he'd hurriedly torn off his shirt and shoes, and then dove like a porpoise into the spuming and crashing dark water. Alec jumped in right alongside him, racing from the pink-and-white shell pebble strand to the ocean. Louise, fragile with early pregnancy, waited behind.

Scott and Alec were both very good swimmers. They stroked powerfully toward the sound of those burbling screams.

(He should have had a bodyguard. _Would_ have… if he hadn't wanted to avoid looking like a damn tycoon in front of his friends.)

Water was nothing to Scott; just salty wet velvet, bearing him up with its rhythmic tumble and surge. He and Alec had reached the shadowy victim in just a few moments. Together, they'd propped up and reassured the poor, frightened woman.

(She'd turn up dead three days later, shot in the head after being discharged from the hospital.)

Working in unison, they'd headed for shore across a turbulent riptide, taking turns swimming with the exhausted victim. The way seemed ten times as long, coming back. But such laughter and back-slapping triumph, Scott recalled, when they'd made it safely onto the beach. Police sirens were just beginning to mourn in the distance, while shocked crowds gathered close to point, and then cheer. Scott had seized a towel and ducked his head to avoid being photographed. He was quite famous, and always in danger of a law-suit. Alec it was, who'd waved over the hurrying EMTs. Alec who kept the crowd back.

People bond closely, at times like that. It was no wonder that Scott began to think of his friend as potential IR material. Especially after Louise ran up and hurled herself into Alec's arms, sobbing and calling him the bravest man in creation.

From thought to deed is a very small step. Before, Scott would have had his father to consult with, or John. But the one was crippled from multiple strokes, now. The other, lost away gone.

Besides, Virgil and Gordon were working like dogs, taking increasingly desperate risks to save innocent lives. They really _could_ have used help. And Scott knew Bird Dog like a brother; had flown and battled, gotten drunk and caroused with the man in all kinds of seedy dives. He'd also had time to reconnect with Alec, and to witness up close his courage and stamina.

From manipulated emotion to regrettable act is often a short, fatal plunge. Scott made up his mind in mere days. Then he picked a quiet moment near the end of his visit, and told Alec Morrissey all about International Rescue. More than that, he invited Bird Dog to join them, setting the stage for a brutal and horrid disaster.


	6. 6: Cast Adrift

Hi, guys! Little bit more. I've been breathlessly busy these last few days, in a good way. Off to read and review, now. =) Edited. Thanks, Tikatu.

**6: Cast Adrift**

_Wharton Academy's artifacts rooms, in a fog of wishful regret-_

Janey hadn't known her uncle's exact thoughts and actions, of course. All of these things had happened a long time before, back when she was little enough to write long, heartfelt letters of apology to Santa Claus. Back when she thought that giving away all her toys and promising God good behaviour would help bring her parents back. "Disappeared" wasn't dead, after all. Not really.

When Uncle Scott's friend came to the island, all that Jane saw was somebody new; full of stories she hadn't heard before and wild descriptions of flying and dogfights. In short, a sudden new uncle. Why not take to him? Uncle Virge and Gordon certainly had. Even TinTin, who sometimes got feelings about people and urged Grandpa Jeff to send them away... even _she_ liked him.

Mister Alec had a wife, but she'd stayed behind in California because there was going to be a baby, and he didn't want her to travel. TinTin never got a chance to meet Mrs. Morrissey, and neither did Janey, Ian, Ricky or Fermat. Maybe that was important, Jane wondered?

To the glowing blue cereal-shill, Janey said,

"I have a data request. Why did Mr. Alec sell us out, like that? He seemed really nice! Why did he do it?"

From his perch atop the nearest display case, Crunchy Bear swiveled big cartoon eyes to look at her.

_'There is insufficient credit in the account of Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy and Ian Tracy for further data mining,'_ he told her.

Ian scowled, fists clenched in the pockets of his uniform pants. Shaking a few strands of blond hair from his eyes, her brother said,

"I don't believe that. And I don't believe dad and mom screwed up any timelines, either. I think you're lying, 'cause you don't want to answer the question!"

Janey's blue eyes flew open as wide as a cat's. Provoking a universal help-desk was probably not very smart. She would have said so, too, but Ricky got there first. Stepping protectively in front of his angry young nephew, Richard Tracy said,

"He means that he just doesn't get it. How all that could happen, I mean. My brother John was…"

"_Is_," Janey insisted.

Ricky shot her an irritated look before saying,

"…is a pretty smart guy. He taught me all kinds of stuff about computers and game strategy, but I don't see how one guy could muck up a whole universe, much less a bunch of them. That's…"

The handsome Eurasian boy paused to search for the right word, until Fermat supplied,

"… awfully f- farfetched. I, for one w- would… like t- to challenge, er… "Nexus Central Authority" to prove… th- this claim, or else sh- shut up about it."

Everyone turned to look admiringly at Fermat, who could sound awfully grown up when he wanted to. Even Daniel gave him a hearty thumbs-up.

Cartoon food icons couldn't sigh, but Crunchy Bear certainly flickered a bit; his wavering glow causing the shadows and dust motes to dance.

_'Information herein presented derives from the Nexus Central Authority database. No alteration or bit-degradation is possible, once data has been recorded and uploaded. There is no lie.'_

"Talk is cheap, Bear," cut in Claire, fists on her hips. "Prove it, or… or give Janey and Ian some of my credit. I'm allowed to do that, right?"

The Crunchy Bear icon seemed to consider. You had to feel sorry for him, having been woken up and accessed for the first time in two-thousand years, only to face an abandoned command center and seven importunate kids. On the other hand, it was the first help request in two-thousand years, and that had to count for something. Right?

Said the gleaming blue avatar,

_'Credit transfer is permissible, given the assent of all parties.'_

"Assent, assent, assent!" whooped Claire Tracy, waving both arms over her tousled head for emphasis.

"Yeah, us too," Janey added, glancing at her still-angry brother. "We'd like to arrange a credit transfer."

Weird. _Something_ definitely happened, just as soon as Crunchy Bear looked at her. She could feel it, like a surging tide or altering luck. While the new sensation was still making her nerve-ends tingle, Janey repeated,

"What happened? Why did Mr. Alec turn on us, like that?"

XXX

_Many years earlier, on Tracy Island-_

The introductions had gone better than Scott could've hoped. Alec was a natural, with his cocky grin and firm, pilot's handshake.

He and Gordon took to each other immediately, both being former military and naturally athletic. Gordon could even offer the soon-to-be father domestic advice. After all, he'd been happily wed to TinTin for nearly six years, now, and considered himself a veteran.

Virgil liked the newcomer, too, though for different reasons. Alec "Bird Dog" Morrissey was an avid hunter and fisherman, and Virgil had liked the same things, back in Wyoming. They had a lot to talk about. Better yet, Virgil enjoyed showing Alec how to handle the various simulators and "situation room", talking him through all the hard parts.

Alec had even passed the critical Lucy and TinTin assessment, charming both women with his sparkle and warmth. In short, he was welcomed like a member of the family, for everyone trusted Scott's judgment.

For his own part, Alec had first been astounded, then psyched by Scott's offer. Seriously, who _wouldn't_ want to join International Rescue? The first few simulated missions had gone pretty well, with Alec copiloting a mock-up Thunderbird 2, while Gordon waited "below", near the rescue basket. Scott sat minding the desk, speaking with exactly the same even tone he'd have used in an actual emergency.

_"Thunderbird 2,"_ he announced over the comm, _"You're coming in high. You'll miss the optimal hover site and have to come back around, if you don't shed some of that altitude."_

"FAB, Island Base," Virgil responded patiently. Scott, Alec gathered, was something of a worry-wart. "Increasing rate of descent by fifteen percent."

They were headed for a detailed simulation of Tokyo, where over a hundred people were trapped on the roof of a quake-damaged sky-scraper. Scott and Brains had thrown a massive tsunami into the mix, as well; converting Tokyo into a chain of shrinking rooftops in an ocean of surging debris. The simulation was _so_ good, in fact… and Virgil, Gordon and Scott so much in character… that Alec had trouble remembering that all of this wasn't for real.

His hands shook and his mouth was dry as he operated those steering rockets in tandem with Virgil, only half listening to Scott's frequent updates. The target was nearly beneath them. Then a red flash dyed their comm screen, just as Virgil was banking in for a spot over that mob of pale, worried faces.

"What the…?" Alec began, feeling dazed.

"After-shock," Virgil told him, in a tight, quiet voice. "Means we're likely to get another wave. Pacific Warning System's blasting alerts like mad. We've got ten, maybe twenty minutes to get those people off of there." Then, flipping a comm switch and raising his voice, Virgil said,

"John, we're gonna need…"

Virgil stopped all at once in mid-sentence, his handsome face turning bleak.

"Um… sorry about that. Brains, I mean. Brains, we're gonna need some translated instructions, here."

_"I'm, ah… I'm on it, Virgil,"_ responded their chief engineer. His voice sounded strained, but that was understandable. John's loss had left a tremendous hole in the family and their organization. Hearing his name like that… well, it shook them up a bit.

On the outside, Thunderbird 2's mock-up tilted, juddered and swayed upon giant hydraulic steel pistons, making the chamber resound like a ballgame of Gods vs. Titans.

On the inside, two men were sweating with concentration as they lowered their 'Bird into position over a crumbling Tokyo sky-scraper. It was absolutely realistic and frighteningly detailed, down to the roar of the water, the crunch and boom of collapsing buildings and hundreds of choked-off screams.

By this time, Alec's heart was racing. His throat felt tight, for he'd begun breathing through his mouth.

"Can't we go any faster?" he pled, glancing from the view screen to Virgil. "That building's about to be swamped!"

"Hurrying only makes things worse, Alec," said Virgil. "Trust me. I've been doing this for awhile." Then, "You about ready in there, Kiddo? It's show time."

_"Locked and loaded,"_ Gordon called cheerfully back through the comm. _"Lower away."_

His simulator was more complicated, involving wind machines, artificial spray and a two-story drop amid high-def wall screens. For Gordon, too, the illusion was nearly complete. In full survival suit and helmet, his vision was somewhat compromised, anyhow.

Above him hovered the giant green, rivet-pocked belly of Thunderbird 2, thrumming a chord so deep that it hadn't a name. Below him lay all that remained of a wave- and quake- ravaged city. The basket swung and spun as it dropped through wind and spray and backwash, down to that vanishing rooftop.

The air smelt of ozone, death and seawater. Gordon held tight to the basket's rubberized steel cable and sides, watching the city and people swaying beneath him. Then a booming, translated voice radiated through the Bird's speakers, giving instructions in halting Japanese.

John could have done it better… but John and his wife were gone, leaving behind two kids that Gordon had made it his personal mission to look out for and shelter. Not here, though. Here and now, he had work to do.

Though a vast line of rolling white water had appeared far out toward shore, there was no panic. As soon as his rescue basket touched down on the roof, women began climbing within, assisted by their friends and companions. And if he hadn't been crucial in placing the quake victims aboard ship, Gordon would have waited below to allow one more female inside.

Two trips he made, through a louder rumble and ever-increasing ground sway. Pieces of building collapsed into the surging water like bits of a calving glacier, but he managed not to get hit.

The third trip was foolhardy, and they shouldn't have tried it. Too many people caused the basket's winch to slow down and strain. Then the wave came, fanged in shards of glass and twisted metal, big as a thundering wall.

Gordon braced himself, staring directly into the face of the wave that would kill him. People shrieked and clutched at him, terrified. Some of them prayed.

Then the lights came on, the wind machines howled to a stop, and a calm female voice said,

_"Simulation concluded. Score: 78 percent."_

Gordon tore off his helmet and pivoted to face a row of windows set high in the western wall, making his basket sway like a rope swing. One of the silhouetted watchers waved to him, but red-headed Gordon shouted back,

"78 percent? Are you kidding me? That was at least an 80!"

_"You died again, Gordon," _Scott replied drily. _"There's a definite point loss for going down with a basket-load of helpless civilians."_

Gordon looked away, suddenly, pretending to adjust the seams of his survival suit.

"You never know," he objected stubbornly. "They could've been strong swimmers. Plus, my suit floats. I'd have held on to them all!"

_"You'd have died, and maybe pulled 2 into danger, as well. That goes for you too, Virgil, Alec. We've got to start thinking, people, or someday soon we're going to get nailed. Ten minutes to debrief."_

Up in the mock cockpit, Alec Morrissey was a pale and shaken man.

"Didn't do very well, did I?" he asked Virgil, who was rubbing at the cramped muscles of his own neck and broad shoulders. Surprisingly, the big pilot grinned at him.

"Sometime, I'll tell you about my first simulator run… but I'll need a couple of beers in me, first. 78 percent? I'd have been happy with 30!"

Slowly, Virgil got to his feet; a towering, friendly bear of a man. Offering Alec a hand up from the copilot's seat, he said,

"It gets better, Alec. I promise. And the feeling you get after a successful mission… Well, there's just nothing like it. Not a game-winning touchdown or a concert with three standing ovations. _Nothing_."

Alec Morrissey nodded weakly, deciding that he'd have to take Virgil's word for it. Maybe things would start looking up when his performance improved?

There was no way to tell at the moment, and nothing to do but soldier on, so he followed Virgil Tracy out of the simulator room and over to debrief. It was later that night that he got the first nerve-wrcking call about his wife, Louise.


	7. 7: In Time of Trouble

Thanks for reading and reviewing, all. Will amend, after Mass. Edited.

**7: In Time of Trouble**

_Wharton Academy, in a bleak and dangerous calm-_

Understanding brought forgiveness, or so she'd always been told. But learning more about Mr. Alec's treachery… beginning to see his motives… did nothing to soften Jane's heart. As far as she was concerned, a murderer ought to be punished, and a murderer double times over thrown smack-bang in jail.

She and her brother, uncle and cousin were standing in one of the artifact rooms with Fermat, Daniel and Sam. This was no regular edu-trip, though. For one thing, the whole room (and all the rest of creation for all they knew) had frozen in time like a ragged shocked gasp. For another, they'd uncovered some kind of link to an ancient help-desk, whose avatar was sparkling and gleaming in midair before them, having taken Claire's favourite cartoon shape. The situation couldn't have gotten much weirder, even with three wishes and a timeline-mixing John Tracy thrown in.

Said Janey, standing with bravely-straight shoulders,

"We haven't gotten to why he did it, yet… not that it matters."

Clairey had gotten all big-eyed and pale at the sight of her father, Gordon, still alive and joking around. Seeing this, Ian sort of leaned over to punch his cousin's arm. Been there, y'know? And Tracys stood always together.

"We can take the rest," Ricky spoke up for them all. "Show us what happened, and why. We'll make up our minds how to fix it all, just as soon as we find out what really went on."

…And they nodded at that, because Richard Tracy was the oldest one present, and everyone wanted so much to believe what he said. Given the chance, who wouldn't pick hope over sorrow and loss?

Things were going to get uglier, though; he accepted that. They all did; because, though they'd been somewhat sheltered by well-meaning family and friends, everyone knew how much the Tracys had lost, all those years back.

Ricky's gaze flicked from Janey to Claire, making eye-contact with both. Catching his drift, Jane stepped closer to the auburn-haired girl. Had to. Whatever came next was going to be hardest on _her._

"Listen, whatever you see, we can change," Janey whispered. "But doctors have to look first, before they can give you the medicine, and we've got to look at this… but you can close your eyes if you want, Clairey-girl. No one 'll say anything."

Claire Tracy's wide brown eyes bored up into Janey's blue ones. She nodded convulsively, like somebody waiting for test results. Claire was the one with all the credit stored up, thanks to Gawain Someone-or-other, and the Crunchy Bear help-desk icon had apparently been waiting until she was ready. When the girl seemed prepared, hand tucked in Jane's, the data file opened once more.

XXX

_Tracy Island, a lifetime away-_

The harrowing simulation had shortly been followed by a long and pitiless debrief. His friend, best man and former squadron commander, Scott, had helmed the meeting, which dragged on for nearly two hours. Nice. The best that Alec could say, afterward, was that he wasn't the only one to be raked over the coals.

Gordon took a lot of heat from Dr. Hackenbacker, mostly because he thought with his heart and his gut, instead of his head. Alec liked the guy, though, and tried to shift some of the attention off of Gordon and onto himself by asking plenty of clueless-noob questions. Probably disappointed Scott in the process, but made a lifelong friend out of Gordon.

"So… we're _not_ supposed to keep going back for more victims, then?" Alec enquired, in seeming innocence.

"Not at the risk of killing the ones we've already hauled out of trouble," Scott replied, frowning tiredly, "or of leaving them alone in a complex machine they can't operate. There was no way to get a hundred percent on that particular sim… but if Gordon hadn't gone back for another load of refugees… with Virgil's go-ahead… you'd have gotten a ninety, at least."

Virgil didn't like that, much. He ran a big hand through his wavy brown hair, and then shook his head.

"Sorry, Scott, but I've got to call BS on that one. The mission _could_ have worked out even with a third trip, if Brains hadn't programmed it not to… and how do you turn your back on desperate people waiting to be rescued, when they trust you to save them? How could you ask me to leave them behind? I shave this face in the mirror twice a day, Scott. Be nice to be able to look myself in the eye while doing it."

Like Scott, Brains, Gordon and Alec, Virgil was seated in Jeff's old office, surrounded by portraits and view screens. Also like them, he was tired and hungry, and very glad when TinTin bustled in with a silver tray full of sandwiches. She was pregnant again, barely showing, and glowing with joy.

Gordon stood up when his wife came into the room. Excusing himself with a quick wave, he strode over to kiss the young woman, long and affectionately. The others had got to their feet, as well, and they stood there grinning like fools while Gordon pretended to wrestle his wife for the food tray.

Alec smiled with especial warmth, thinking of Louise, but Scott's expression held something wistful. Love, Alec reflected, made all the difference in the world.

Gordon whispered something to TinTin before grabbing a roast beef sandwich. She blushed and gave him a semi-reproving glance before plunking the tray down upon a low table and then taking a seat on the arm of her husband's chair. Clearly, they were close, as the side-arm embrace and shared sandwich betrayed.

Scott had lost track of Virgil's point by this time, but it hardly mattered, as there came yet another distraction. One of the wall screens flashed and then cleared, revealing a high-def image of Alan.

Outdoors, he was, with the low and wavering roar of engines somewhere behind him. Something clashed and rang off camera, sounding for all the world like steel cable slapping a flag pole. He was blond and sunny as ever, with smile-and-squint lines around his blue eyes, and the look of a man who was having the time of his life. The racing gear that he wore… one piece, fire-proof suit and doffed helmet… were not new, meaning that this day, he'd only been practicing.

_"Hey, everybody,"_ he said, laughing into the camera. _"Just wanted to call home and check out the new guy. Alec, isn't it?"_

Morrissey nodded, rising from his seat and hastily swallowing a last bite of ham-and-cheese sandwich. From force of habit, Alec extended his right hand for a shake, then colored as he recalled that Alan was only an image. But Virgil leaned over and shook the wavering hand, making everyone laugh.

"Alec Morrissey," the newcomer agreed. "And you're Alan Tracy: number 7, and last year's Daytona 500 winner."

_"This year's, too, if my team and sponsors have anything to say about it," _Alan assured them all. _"But I'm always available, if you need any work done out on the west coast. Can't let the old skills get rusty."_

Alec liked him immediately, and not just because Alan Tracy had won him several hundred-dollar bets. He'd have said more, but Scott took swift control of the conversation, being the naturally cautious sort.

"We were just debriefing a business deal, Al. Is the line secure?"

Alan scowled and then did something at the side of his camera pickup; fiddled with knobs, or some such…

_"Nope,"_ he admitted, after a moment or two. _"So, you'd better not reveal where the money and bodies are buried. Not after all that time we spent arranging Gordon's alibi."_

Alec stiffened with shock and confusion, but the burst of mock threats and verbal horseplay which followed the statement soon calmed him back down, again. The Tracys were a playful bunch, he was learning, Playful and affectionate. A guy could start feeling at home, here. Given time, he could start to fit in.

The debrief closed with equal parts banter and advice, the mood having been very much lightened by TinTin and Alan. Not bad, on the whole, Alec thought. That night after dinner, though, his phone rang. Alec picked up without checking the number, because Louise was far off, and the nights were awfully long.

"Morrissey. Cut to the chase."

There was an instant's silence on the line, and then…

_"Your wife is very pretty. So pretty, when she walks to work in the morning. I like watching her, Alec. I like it a lot."_

"Whu… Hey!"

Alec shot bolt upright out of the chair he'd been sitting in, TV show forgotten.

"Who is this?"

_"An admirer, Alec. Close enough every day to reach out and stroke her soft cheek. I like her dressing gown, too. It's pink tonight. Don't you wish you could see it? Would you like to find out what's under there as badly as I do?"_

"Stay the hell away from my wife!" Alec choked, not seeing anything at all now but the pattern of lights and swollen veins in his eyes.

_"Shhh… Don't tell, Alec! It's our little secret… our little game. Move, and she dies. You've got to give something to get something, understand? Do you __understand__, Alec?"_

The voice was papery; dry and rasping, with an insane sort of giggle running through it like a trickle of sewage. Alec was shaking so badly by now that he almost dropped the phone.

"What are you after?" he managed at last, speaking around the icy band that was clamped to his throat and chest.

_"Ohh… you'll find out. Games are no fun if you rush them, are they? Good night, Alec. Sleep tight, and dream of what she looks like, lying snug in her bed, tonight. I'm dreaming, too."_

There was no sleep for Bird Dog that night. No sleep, at all.


	8. 8: Yesterday

Thanks, Bubzchoc, Sam and Bee. =)

**8: Yesterday**

_Wharton Academy, while time held its breath and reality quivered-_

Claire, with her hand still clasped firmly in Jane's, said,

"I was gonna get a little sister?" (For she couldn't imagine being saddled by her mom with a _boy._) "What happened? Where'd the baby go?"

Jane looked over the top of Claire's mussed auburn head to Ricky, who'd gone grim and tight about the mouth. Evidently, this was news to him, too… but he'd been young and heedless, back then. Something like an aunt's early pregnancy, he'd most likely have missed.

Not far away, Daniel Solomon cleared his throat and said, quietly,

"My mom had _two_ almost-babies, Claire. She said they went back to Heaven for another try… but so far, there's only me. Your little sister might be waiting for another chance, too."

Sometimes, blond, chubby Dan could be awfully sweet. Jane smiled at him, and squeezed Claire's trembling hand.

"Guess it's up to us to make that 'chance' a success," said Janey. "All we need is the rest of the picture. Who called Mr. Alec, and what did they say that would make him get somebody killed?"

XXX

_Tracy Island, just before things went so very wrong-_

All night long, all that Alec could do was think of his wife, Louise, and of who might be stalking her. _Move, and she dies,_ the caller had told him, meaning that perhaps his phone and activities were being monitored. Maybe there was a private line, though? One the Tracys used to call friends on the mainland? Or else he could send an email message…? Louise checked her email every morning before work, Alec recalled. Could he send some kind of coded message, warn her, somehow?

Alec didn't know, but he was resolved to try. He had to do some quick mental figuring to work out the time difference between Tracy Island and Sacramento, California. It wouldn't do to have the message sit in her inbox for long, just in case her mail was being watched. Of course, he could always just call her, but…

The phone chirped again, and Alec almost broke his hand diving to scoop up and answer it. Only, this time there wasn't a voice but a series of pictures, taken in various places and times, of his wife: walking along a broad street, with sunglasses on… eating lunch at the office café, frowning down at her plate like she'd never seen salad… standing at the bright red door to their flat, fumbling in her purse for the keys.

Alec's heart clenched, hard. Stabbing a flurry of buttons, he tried to trace the pictures' source, but all he got for his trouble was a fried, useless cell phone.

_'I could go to Scott,'_ he thought to himself, _'but what if he calls the police, and Louise gets hurt before they can reach her?'_

It was while he was thinking this, standing in the middle of his suite with balled fists and sightless eyes, that another phone began ringing; the one by his bed. Alec pivoted wildly, almost tripped over the coffee table, and barked his shins on its scrolled edge. He hardly felt the small injury, so desperate was Alec to got to that shrill, mocking phone. Perversely, it stopped ringing before he could quite reach it. He snatched the receiver from its cradle anyhow, whispering,

"Hello…? Louise…?"

But there was only a faint, droning hum at the other end, like flies at a road-killed deer.

"Dammit!" He threw the receiver away from him, out past the open French doors and onto his balcony.

Then yet another phone rang, somewhere else in the house. Alec turned and ran for the sound, which seemed to keep switching locations. At last, in the lower levels of the mansion, he encountered Kyrano, Scott's relation-through-marriage. The slim, elegant Malaysian was standing at a wall-comm in his terry-cloth robe, looking faintly puzzled.

"There was no-one on the line," he explained to Alec. "I am sorry if the ringing disturbed you. It may be that Master Richard has once again given the house number to his school mates, who are known to be mischievous. I will speak with Mr. Scott of the matter."

And that seemed to settle things, as far as Kyrano was concerned. Urging Alec to return to his suite for the remainder of the night, Jeff Tracy's former manservant bid him '_bon nuit' _and departed.

But the one-time fighter pilot and terrified husband did not go back to his room. Instead, he stayed by that wall comm, breathing in rough, ragged bursts and occasionally cursing. Maybe thirty minutes passed in this way. Maybe an hour. Alec couldn't be sure.

Then it happened. Very quietly, the wall comm began buzzing and flashing. Alec responded with a hasty button jab, growling,

"Hello? Who's there?"

There was no picture from the other end, only faint, rasping chuckles. Then,

_"You're slow, Alec. I don't think you want her as much as I do. I don't think you care enough to save her."_

Nearly in tears, by now, Alec cursed aloud and said,

"What is it you want? Why are you doing this?"

The voice on the other end laughed. Then it began humming one of the tunes that Alec and Louise had danced to, after their wedding. If he could have, Alec Morrissey would have climbed through that comm line and strangled the tittering, scratchy-voiced singer.

"I swear to you," he snarled, "if any harm comes to Louise… if she's frightened or hurt in any way at all… I'll hunt you down and kill you, myself! No police, no courts! Now, what the hell do you want from me?"

_"Now, now, Alec. Your control is slipping! Not a good thing for a man with so many new responsibilities. What would your pretty young wife say, assuming she could say anything at all?"_

Alec took a deep breath.

"Tell me what you want," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Had this sicko already acted?

_"Oh… just a picture, Alec. That's all. A picture of the Tracys at home, to prove that your heart's in the right place. Your smart phone is working again. You can use that. But don't try to call dear Louise,"_ the awful voice sing-songed. _"She's not home anymooooore…!"_

Alec's heart dropped about twenty feet, and his gut turned to ice-water. His head was spinning, but he somehow managed to speak, saying,

"H- How will I know where to send the picture?"

_"Just get the image, Alec. I'll call… sooner or later, before she gets __too__ uncomfortable. In the meantime, if you tell anyone, all you'll be doing is picking up pieces. Do you know how much of someone a quart zip-lock bag can hold? I do."_

He couldn't answer that. Couldn't do anything but say, very softly,

"Please, I'm begging you…"

Then the line went dead. A bit later that day, Scott and the others noticed that Alec seemed tense, but that was understandable. Learning to handle yourself on a mission was rough. Scott, Virgil and Gordon had learnt on the job, making mistakes in the air, underground and in the water that only luck and Providence could've got them safely past.

They had no intention of making Alec do the same. For one thing, they liked him too much. For another, it was dangerous.

A few more simulations had been programmed, but then something happened that trumped all this, giving Alec his first taste of a genuine mission. An alert ripped through lab and house, summoning them all to the office at a dead run. Brains was at the desk that day. He looked up from his data screen to inform them that a robot mining sub had lost its guidance signal and was now surging directly for Sea Base Delta, out in the Med. Newly built and lightly staffed, the base had no attack subs, as yet. Nor could the rampaging miner be remotely destroyed. It would respond to no signals, at all.

WASP might've got there in less that two hours. International Rescue could do it in minutes. Alec had been half-listening to the details, fumbling with his smart-phone's photo app, when Scott surprised him by saying,

"Virge, you're in 2. Gordon, suit up and get ready to launch from pod 4. Alec, you'll be riding along with Virgil."

Smiling tightly, mind locked into a thousand small details, Scott added,

"There's nothing like a back-seat mission to help get your head on straight. Worked for Alan, anyway."

Virgil was already moving, crossing the distance from his seat to the hangar access door in four quick strides.

"Let's go, you two," he called over one broad shoulder. This was his kind of mission; quick, clean and focused. All it wanted was John, up there in 5, sorting things out for them. Musing on this, he never noticed a few hurried phone-cam shots.

All along the gantry to Thunderbird 2, Alec prayed for speed. Not for the sake of Sea Base Delta, but for his wife, who hadn't answered her phone at work or the flat.

His view of the elevator ride and vast, noisy hangar was a disjointed mess, made terrible by other, unwanted thoughts. The caller had demanded a picture. What for? What interest could this maniac have in the Tracys? He just didn't know, and it scared him to death.

Gordon left them about halfway along, clapping both Virgil and sandy-haired Alec on the back before turning to head for a long row of transport pods.

"Luck, you guys," he called, waving negligently. "Fly safe."

At the word 'safe', Alec started like a yearling buck scenting pickups and hounds.

"Nervous?" asked Virgil, as they sped along the metal gantry to Thunderbird 2. When Alec merely gave him a pale, worried glance, the big pilot said,

"That's okay. We all get the jitters, from time to time. Wouldn't be human, if we didn't. That's why I don't read fortune cookies, anymore. Got one, once, that said: _You will end as a hero._ Nice, huh? Even adding 'in bed' to the end didn't help."

Alec swallowed hard, and nodded, fighting for control of himself. In any pilot's life… especially a fighter pilot… there are moments of immediacy that take over everything else. This was surely one of them.

_'You're here, you're needed. Get the job done,'_ he told himself, trailing a tall, smiling man who was, indeed, a hero.

In bits and snatches he saw brilliant floodlights and scurrying maintenance bots. Heard Scott's voice, and Brains', over the wavering blare of the launch klaxons. From down below, that row of jungle-green pods had begun moving, with a noise like the grinding of continents. Ahead, Thunderbird 2 loomed like a slumbering dinosaur; jaw-drop impressive up close and in person.

Alec stumbled and caught himself. He'd have been so thrilled to be here, so psyched, if only…

"Careful, there. Some of the gantry panels get warped at every docking, and they aren't always replaced before the next roll-out. Gordon tripped and busted his forehead open, once. Lied about it, too, and got on with the mission."

_On with the mission…_

Alec squared his shoulders and slapped a confident look on his face, telling himself that he had it all under control. He could find a way to save Louise while keeping the Tracys' secrets. All it was, you see, was another rough situation. Just like in Korea or Kazakhstan. Just a different set of parameters, was all. He could handle this.

Forcing concern to the back of his mind, Alec Morrissey followed Virgil aboard Thunderbird 2. Down below, Gordon Tracy was already in place, suited up and cracking his knuckles. From time to time Scott or Lucy called in with updates and orders, but TinTin did not. She'd always had a hard time controlling her emotions when Gordon set off on a dangerous mission, and it troubled him… distracted him… to hear the tension in her soft voice. She and Clairey were all the world to Gordon. Well, along with the coming little one.

Gordon smiled, wrapping his head around the thought of _two_ exuberant rug-rats. Then his pod ceased moving. Next, he heard and felt the booming clang of Thunderbird 2 lowering herself into position over his pod. Inside it, seated at the helm of bright yellow Thunderbird 4, Gordon was suddenly all business. All mission.

He might have won the World Lottery, learnt that TinTin was expecting quadruplets, been diagnosed with purple-spotted death fungus, and still maintained his focus. Piloting a SkyDiver and serving aboard Mako had taught him to do that.

_"You set?"_ Virgil asked him, over the comm.

"Right as rain," Gordon responded, performing the last of his rapid preflight. Pod 4 shuddered and rang like a gong as giant clamps locked her tightly in place.

_"We're good, Scott. Let's do this,"_ Virgil called to the desk, using an open channel.

_"Understood. You have launch clearance, Thunderbird 2," _Scott replied, while Brains' voice played faint background counterpoint. _"We're in touch with WASP and Sea Base Delta. They wish you Godspeed and good luck."_

Up in the cockpit of Thunderbird 2, Virgil said something in reply, but Alec missed most of it. He was too busy watching the launch sequence, momentarily lost in the grandeur of it all.

The launch was fast, noisy and jarring, with a sudden transit from artificially lit cavern to open runway; with drooping false palm trees and a ramp which lifted 2's blunt green nose until there was nothing before them but sky, and Alec was pressed to his seat like an ant between dictionary pages.

Then the engines roared from muttering rumble to full, snarling life, and Thunderbird 2 blasted off. Had to be 6, 7 Gs at least, Alec figured, and nothing at all like the simulator. Beside him, Virgil Tracy alternately hummed aloud and called in to the desk for updates and course corrections.

They were after a moving target, one Virgil meant to bring to a screeching halt before it could do any damage. The ocean shimmered beneath them, blue and sun-spangled, marked by long bands of rippling swells. The sky was an utterly cloudless, heart-breaking blue. Framing all this, the view screens before them showed scenes of the office, of Sea Base Delta and the Mediterranean, where night had already fallen.

A sudden thought struck Alec, then. He'd set his phone to vibrate-mode, but Thunderbird 2 was so noisy, and the launch so violent, that he might easily have missed a call. Alec's hands clenched white-knuckle tight on the arms of his seat. More than anything, he wanted to pull out the phone and _look…_ but he couldn't; not without raising questions that couldn't be answered, for the sake of Louise.

"Want to take the yoke for awhile?" Virgil asked suddenly, interrupting Alec's bleak thoughts. "There's nothing worse than riding along like baggage. Believe me, I know. Broke my arm once, and spent three missions in the copilot's seat, riding shotgun to Gordon."

Remembering all this, Virgil shook his head.

"I hate feeling helpless, and something tells me you're the same. It's a guy-thing, I guess. Go ahead… she's locked on course for the time being, but you can get a feel for the big girl, just by holding the yoke. I'm serious, Alec."

Slowly, Morrissey nodded. Moistening his lips, he reached forth and took hold of the right-seat flight controls, which weren't all that different from those of a cargo plane. Something flowed into him when he touched that heavy, vibrating yoke; a sense of belonging and purpose.

Following her pre-set course, Thunderbird 2 banked eastward. Alec's weight shifted in his seat, and golden panels of sunlight slid across his face and body, briefly gilding the cockpit. Servos whined and steering rockets fired, and it was the most amazing ride of Bird Dog's life. Sensing this, Virgil grinned at him.

"Something else, isn't she? Gordon'll try to win you over to Thunderbird 4, and Scott's probably warming up the sims for 3... But this is it. As good as it gets."

Already half in love with Thunderbird 2, Alec believed him. They reached the danger zone after a wildly fast transit, crossing time zones like they were three feet wide, and the Pacific a mere puddle. Beneath them, the Mediterranean was surrounded with lights and spanned by a glittering trace-work of sea lane traffic. In the gloom of full night, she sparkled like New York City, at dusk.

Now, Virgil took full control of his 'Bird again; humming something fierce and up-tempo as he guided the cargo-lifter downward. Alec watched as the sea's surface rose up to meet them, its greenish-dark swells translucent in Thunderbird 2's searing floodlights. Virgil switched from engines to impellers and rockets, just as he had in the simulator. Beneath them, the water grew flat at first, and then bowl-shaped, rimmed in spuming white.

"Ready to go, Kiddo?" Virgil called down to his brother.

_"About to kick the door down and swim after that sub with a knife in my teeth," _said Gordon, half-seriously.

"I got a better idea," the pilot told him, hitting a long row of virtual switches. "Why don't you sit tight and wait for the splash-down? It's safer, that way."

Alec watched as Virgil set the pod release sequence in motion. Klaxons rang, briefly. Then all showed green across the board, and the clamps released, thirty feet above the sea's heaving surface. Morrissey winced at the booming impact, hoping that Thunderbird 4 had good shock absorbers.

The feel of 2 changed at that instant, for she'd just become a hollow, tail-heavy donut. Virgil was kept busy adjusting for the shifted balance and lowered wind resistance, so Alec relayed orders from Scott to Gordon, using a dropped transmitter buoy.

Down below, the pod had flumped to the surface, wallowed a bit, and then steadied somewhat. At that point, triggered by Gordon, the pod door was lowered to form a long, buoyant ramp. Sea wind and spray rushed into the pod, spattering Gordon's view screen.

Moments later, another set of clamps were released, and then the aquanaut triggered his launch rockets, sending Thunderbird 4 blasting out of the pod, down the ramp and into the churning green water.

She submerged in a rush of silvery bubbles and juddering eddies, like an otter careening off the end of a slide and into the river. Her floodlights cut on automatically, and all at once Gordon was a sea creature, feeling every ripple on the hull through touch pads in the steering controls. At his signal, a small, powerful laser deployed from the hull, and then Gordon Tracy went hunting.


	9. 9: Turmoil

I love long weekends! My laptop is still being worked on, so I've had to commandeer Emmy's. Communication may be somewhat spotty, for awhile, but thanks in advance for all comments and reviews. They are deeply appreciated.

**9: Turmoil**

_Wharton Academy; in body, if not all in mind-_

Claire Tracy strained forward against the grip of Jane's hand as though she wanted to be part of the opened data file. As though she could pierce time itself and climb into Thunderbird 4 with her father. A pale, shifting glow from the archived scene illuminated Claire's face, picking out silvery tear streaks.

"Daddy," she whispered, "be careful."

XXX

_Thunderbird 4, plunging down through a turbulent sea-_

Water rushed past his hull… past him… in its various currents, like warm and cold breezes on land. It felt good, as did the dizzying freedom of movement. Gordon Tracy had always loved water, in all of its forms, whether pool, ocean, river or snow.

He flashed downward from the algae-and-plankton rich surface to cold, murky depths, his hull sensors 'tasting' the steep shift in oxygen levels and salt concentration, feeling the sharp drop in temperature. Every sea had its own feeling and flavor; the Med's was a combination of brine, moldering shipwrecks, seeping amphorae and fuel oil, mixed with algae, silt and fish. Tanning lotion, too, and latex from swim suits, out toward shore.

But he was less interested in water chemistry than vibrations, tonight. Most fish have lateral lines: twin streaks of vibration-sensitive flesh on either side of their bodies. Thunderbird 4 had them, too, across every surface. Using these, she could 'feel' what was stirring off in the depths, and transmit these sensations to him.

Of course, he had scanners and tracking feeds from Island Base, but it felt more natural to let the ocean tell him what was going on out there. And, sure enough, matching right up with Hackenbacker's coordinates, Gordon soon felt an arrowhead of fast-spreading ripples moving his way. A tsunami-like bow-wave preceded it, warning all who had senses to flit from the mining sub's path. Sea Base Delta couldn't get out of the way, however, and neither would Gordon. Instead, he readied himself; planning to delay or disable a possible killer.

Brains helped out by relaying reams of information on the mining sub's specs and armament. It was about thirty feet long, Gordon learnt, programmed to defend itself from danger, and able to transform in seconds from cruising mode to bottom-drilling creeper. More, mining sub 253 possessed an array of torches, force shields, vacuums and drill-bits that would almost have allowed it to crack the dense iron shell of a neutron star. Meant to be self-sufficient even after contact-loss, 253 had simply taken what remained of its scrambled programming and cobbled together a new mission objective: _seek out and pulverize._

Sea Base Delta was being evacuated, Virgil called in to inform him,

_"…but there's only one functional ferry sub, and it takes time to get back and forth from the surface. More are on their way, Gordon, but it'd be better to nip this problem at the root, ASAP. Think you can handle it alone, for awhile? WASP is sending a whole fleet of SkyDiver subs."_

Gordon nodded absently. Very faintly, the rumor of those other boats' coming had begun to reach him through the water; chemical and vague radiation traces, borne on the currents along with the whirr and pulse of fast-churning screws. They weren't being subtle, this hunting pack, but they still wouldn't get there in time to defend Sea Base Delta. Not unless someone delayed the rogue mining sub.

"I've got this," he reassured Virgil (and maybe himself). "Don't worry about a thing."

Up in Thunderbird 2, Virgil Tracy boosted the pick-up strength of their transmitter buoy. Had to, because as Gordon plunged deeper, his signal tended to break up and hiss, making communication difficult. Then, for something else to do, he scanned the area for news flights and digital cameras. Oddly enough, though, what he turned up first was right next to him.

"You've got a cell phone with you?" he craned round to bluntly ask Morrissey.

Their sandy-haired recruit turned pale and still, all at once. Then he said, evenly,

"Yeah… come to think of it, I do. Must've shifted it right over from my jeans to this uniform in the locker room. Force of habit, I guess."

Virgil looked thoughtful a moment, then patted his own uniform pockets. One turned out to hold a flat, rectangular object that brought a sheepish grin to his handsome face.

"Uh-oh. Mine's here, too. But it's switched off, at least. Shut yours down, quick, and we won't say anything about this to Scott or Brains. Why make their ulcers any bigger?"

Alec opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it tight and just nodded. Moving slowly, as though something inside him was screaming against the very idea, Morrissey drew out and shut off his smart phone. For some reason, he looked like a man who'd just heard the judge pronounce sentence. Virgil would've asked if he was expecting a call… the man's wife being pregnant, and all… but then Gordon checked in from below.

_"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 4," _he said. _"I've got it on scanner, now. Damn, it's moving quick! Bigger than Brains said it was, too. Relay Island Base for me, that something weird's going on, here."_

"Roger that, Thunderbird 4," Virgil responded, his forehead creasing with sudden tension. Opening a Base comm channel, he said, "Be smart down there, Gordon. Don't hook anything you can't wrestle to the surface, understood?"

_"FAB,"_ came the short reply, promising nothing at all.

Down below, Gordon had gotten a scanner fix on the hurtling miner. It cast a larger instrument shadow than should have been possible, as though 253 had somehow learned to add parts to itself. Uncertain whether or not the rogue submarine could detect artificial illumination, Gordon dimmed his floodlights. Next he nudged a floor pedal, causing Thunderbird 4 to drift quietly forward and down. If all went well, he'd wind up at a point just below and in front of 253, and hopefully prove to be more than a speed bump.

He hadn't much time to make ready. It's noise and rushing bow wave were terribly magnified, now; blocking out all but the highest-pitched fish calls and dolphin clicks. All of this had barely registered when Gordon got his first look at the thing. Or rather, when he first saw its bullet-shaped force shield. Inside stretched a jagged and bristling shadow, reminding him of a shark-pup inside of its egg-casing.

What had John told him about rebellious machines…? _'Always try talking, first. Sometimes they just need a quick poke in the circuits.'_

Worth a try, he thought. So, with his laser charged up and the debris-cutter whirring, Gordon sent forth a targeted comm-pulse. Basically an amplified shut-down command, it employed a code provided by 253's designer, Paragon Industries.

The comm-pulse flashed outward like a digital time-bomb, fast as light… but it did nothing at all to the rogue mining sub, which seemed not to sense it. Meaning, perhaps, that the sub couldn't 'see'? That it was navigating from stored memory? If so, blindness wasn't much of a handicap.

He'd no time for a second transmission before 253 was upon him. It's hurtling bow wave struck Thunderbird 4 like a club, causing the hull to shudder and groan; driving the smaller craft down and away. Inside, Gordon was shaken to the back teeth.

So much for talking. Taking a firm grip on the controls, Gordon pulled Thunderbird 4 out of her tail-spin and then swung her around to attack from below. The water was colder in the mining sub's wake, swirling with silt and minerals. Each layer of the trailing shock wave felt like a swift-moving concrete wall; like the underwater equivalent of a sonic boom.

Gordon increased power to the rear motors, pushing forward through a storm of after-shock turbulence. He had to get close, and then nearer still, because cavitation bubbles and roilling murk would play hell with any laser strikes, sapping and smearing them.

But in doing so, he created turbulence of his own, and this the mining sub _could_ sense. Suddenly detecting his presence, 253 dropped its hydrodynamic force shield and altered configuration, becoming a thing out of nightmare.

Barely slowing, it yawed around to explore the source of that oncoming vibration, twisting about like a pincered and segmented shark. A set of jointed drilling arms snapped forth from the sub's carapace, then; each tipped with a hissing and sputtering phosphorous torch. They blazed toward him like miniature suns, haloed in brilliant green-white.

Gordon swerved his craft just in time to miss one of the probing torches, but more jointed limbs were deployed as he passed underneath, scorching the Water Bird's hull. Clearly, 253 had pegged Thunderbird 4 as a serious threat.

A quick glance as he swooped beneath the thing revealed the myriad, tightly clenched legs of a horseshoe crab, but no obvious weaknesses. Unsurprising, since the mining sub had been built to withstand crushing pressure, landslides and broiling thermal vents. Only its asteroid-drilling cousins were tougher to kill. One or two laser strikes weren't going to do much more than tickle it. Nevertheless, he had to try. Time. All he needed to do was buy time for better-armed help to arrive.

Mashing a stud on his rudder stick, Gordon sent a beam of concentrated violet light flaring through the water. Small things caught in its path erupted in bubbles of mucus and flame. But the violet beam wasn't much weakened or scattered. It lanced forth to slash at the mining sub's ridged, knobby underside. A direct hit…

…Which managed to do no more than blister a streak through 253's anti-barnacle paint. Undeterred, Thunderbird 4 continued up and around to the rogue submarine's port side, seeking some sort of opening. It was a very brisk tour.

A volley of drilling legs slashed through the water like mechanized lightning, some of them passing near enough to trigger 4's shields and alarm. The rescue sub rocked and creaked, nearly flipping right over. Her force shield cut on automatically, blurring the scene outside and draining 4's batteries, but giving the rescue sub and her pilot some respite from the pounding.

Overhead, Virgil stared at his instruments, leaned against the seat straps and said,

"Uh-oh."

…Not a sound that any copilot wants to hear. Alec craned his head to see what Virgil was looking at.

"What's going on?" he asked, as Virgil Tracy re-opened the comm line for home.

"Gordon's force field just went on. Situation down there must be getting pretty hairy. Excuse me a minute… Island Base, from Thunderbird 2. Island Base, do you copy?"

_"Loud and clear, Thunderbird 2. How can I help you?"_

It was Lucinda Tracy's voice, sounding as taut and professional as a diplomat's.

"Base, Thunderbird 4 is shielded, and we've lost contact. Chances are, there's a fight going on. Can you give me an ETA on that WASP swarm?"

The comm line crackled for a few seconds, barely audible over Thunderbird 2's own muted rumble and the moaning of wind through her gutted body. Then,

_"Commander-Sub-Group-Med says that they're close. Five or seven minutes to estimated scanner range. I've requested that they start pinging like mad and abandon any effort at stealth."_

Beside Alec, Virgil scowled.

"Five to seven…! Where the hell are they coming from, Nebraska?"

_"Gibraltar," _his mother corrected. _"They were over there to intercept pirates, having gotten an anonymous tip about some sort of drug shipment."_

Virgil shook his head.

"Convenient," he muttered. Beside him, Alec looked as worried as Virgil felt. Not for the same reasons, though.

Morrissey's cell phone had been shut off now for nearly half an hour. Anything might have happened in that amount of time. Any number of attempts made to contact him. Louise could be anywhere. Scared, alone… needing his help. The though haunted Bird Dog, who couldn't think of much else.

It might have been different if he'd had something important to do, but this was no more than a ride-along; just a back-seat training mission. He was as useful here as teats on a boar. Maybe less, because now Virgil was handling even the comm, leaving Morrissey nothing to do. Sick with confusion, Alec stared down through the view screen at a spot-lit circle of turbulent water, too worried and heart-sore for prayer.

Well below Thunderbird 2, Gordon was fighting a desperate rear-guard action to delay the rogue mining sub. Stop it entirely, he could not, but so long as Thunderbird 4 maintained her swooping, terrier-like assault, the larger craft could not proceed to Sea Base Delta.

Nice plan, but the risk to Thunderbird 4 was horrendous. Her battery power was nearly gone, drained by the greedy combination of force shield and laser. Dozens of dents and gouges scarred her hull. Alarms and flashing lights filled the cockpit, but Gordon kept up his attack; slashing repeatedly at 253's spindly limbs and sensor array.

He didn't call in to Thunderbird 2. Didn't dare waste the power or time. Not with WASP nearly there and only a few minutes more to hold out. Thirty seconds later his batteries were about to redline, and shield-strength was down to mosquito-net level. The water around him boiled and swirled, reeking of fuel lines and char. The main view screen skipped and flickered, displaying more static than ocean, but still he fought on.

Then a drilling limb struck him topside, deeply denting the boarding hatch. A fine mist of seawater began shooting inside, triggering a whole new set of howling alarms. Gordon cursed quietly and reversed thrust, backing away from his leaking, partly-amputated opponent. Sensing his retreat, 253 began transforming back to cruise mode, or trying to. Some of its remaining appendages were too badly damaged to retract.

But Thunderbird 4 was in a bad way, too, and no longer so hydrodynamic. Her attempted escape set up whorls and eddies that once more triggered the mining sub's defense systems. Turning again, it clattered and rang like a bucket of rocks rolling down hill. But blinded and noisy or not, it could still sense his vibrations, and onward it came.

There was not enough power left for another laser strike. Not if he hoped to climb the ramp into Pod 4. On the other hand, being sliced clean in half would put a definite crimp in his plans for the evening, as well. Another time, he might have done something stupid. Attacked again, maybe. But the image of TinTin and small Claire came into his head all at once. His wife and little girl, right where they didn't belong.

Pressing a certain control stud, Gordon jetted backward, then cut power and switched to dead, neutral buoyancy. If the thing was as blind as he thought, if its warped programming kicked in once more…

253 cast about, looking like the bastard offspring of a shark and a millipede. Inside Thunderbird 4, Gordon watched the sway of its sputtering torches and luminous decals. He didn't move; not creaking his seat or daring to breathe loudly. The alarms had been utterly silenced, as well, leaving only that thin, drizzling seawater mist and occasional sparks to disturb the suddenly tomb-like interior. He'd shut off his comm and locator beacon, too, no doubt causing some emptied bladders overhead but maybe… just possibly… saving his life.

The glow of Thunderbird 2's floodlights grew suddenly more intense, casting a wavering circle of gold on the waters above. Five seconds, ten, and still the rogue mining sub hadn't stopped listening for him, weaving back and forth like a serpent.

Then a long, sleek shadow passed between Thunderbird 4 and that circle of undulant light, followed by several others. Their pings, cavitation and noise were so loud that the skeletal crew of a bronze-age shipwreck would have sat up for a look. The cavalry had got there, at last.

Only when 253 twisted around to launch itself at the WASP SkyDiver subs did four lurking others release their torpedoes. Gordon heard their launch and felt their approach as they slashed through the sea like thrown knives. They made a noise like droning hornets. All four struck home, detonating against the rogue miner's reinforced hull with dull, booming _crumps, _but they didn't succeed in destroying it.

One of the pack broke away while the others made ready to fight. Coming about, it turned broadside to Gordon's position. Moments later, something shot out and hammered against Thunderbird 4, setting the hull to ringing like glass. Then the object shifted about, latched on and stuck fast. Gordon recognized the noises. A contact transmitter, intended for speaking with those in downed, blacked-out submarines.

_"Thunderbird 4, this is Commander Shaw, of WSS Irukandji. Do you require assistance? We have magnetic grapples and rescue divers standing by."_

Gordon broke into a big, boyish grin at the sound of those names. Irukandji had been part of the same sub group as Mako, and he'd known (then) Lieutenant Carl Shaw quite well. Cutting on power again and disguising his voice just a bit, Gordon said,

"Thanks just the same, 'Kandji, but I believe I can limp off to port without further help."

There was a moment's silence at the other end, during which Gordon struck himself on the forehead. Damn, but it was hard to stay aloof with old friends. Went both ways, it appeared, because Shaw replied,

_"Right. Understood, Thunderbird 4. Thanks for warming 253 up for us. We'll take it from here. Go hit the showers and polish your medals."_

Not trusting himself further, Gordon simply clicked the mike-button twice by way of acknowledgment. Then he routed what power remained to the motors and made his way to the surface, careful not to rise so fast that the pressure change burst any seams. He barely had maneuvering fuel left to creep up the ramp to Pod 4, and didn't dare talk about it, either. Not with a WASP contact transmitter still clamped to his hull. Virgil would just have to wait for that on-site action report.

Then, of course, the battle-warped hatch wouldn't open, forcing Gordon to make the entire trip home in a cramped little cockpit, ankle-deep in cold seawater. Not a word did he speak most of the way, just in case WASP technology had improved since he'd served in the corps, all those years ago. Better safe than have to drink oneself stinking drunk with regret, afterward.

About halfway along, WASP's battle was won and Virgil could switch his attention to other matters. A quick diagnostic scan pinpointed Gordon's electronic hitchhiker. Requesting permission to fly a number of long, loose figure-eights, Virgil dispatched Alec to the pod with a tool kit, telling him to disable the transmitter. Necessary, because for all they knew, the thing was also a tracking device. Spectrum had been known to pull such tricks, before. Why not WASP?

Glad for something to do, Alec took a lift down to the hold area, using the time and privacy to check for phone messages. There were none, thank God… and that was quite a coincidence. Had the caller known he'd be occupied? Alec pulled at his lower lip. Weird and worrisome thought, that. How much inside information did this maniac already have, and what was he really after? Blue prints? Technology? Hush money?

Morrissey was too jittery and keyed-up to decide. Too concerned for Louise and his friends in IR for much in the way of deep thought. The lift rumbled downward, nearing the base of Pod 4. Putting away his smart phone, Alec composed his features before the lift thudded home and its doors slid apart. Gordon might've forced the hatch in the interim, after all, or the pod's cameras might've been swung about. And above all, for everyone's safety, he had to avoid suspicion.

It was with confident strides that Alec entered the iodine-and-salt reeking pod. Thunderbird 4 lay clamped in her berth directly before him; a battered and pitiful sight. He drew a sharp breath, then, for some of those strikes had come dangerously close to piercing the rescue sub's hull.

Gathering himself, Morrissey stepped onto a pierced metal walkway, shaking his head at the stench of leaking hydraulic fluid, burnt insulation and fried algae. Thunderbird 4 dribbled seawater and sent forth continual showers of sparks.

"Phew…!" Alec whistled, starting his walk-around. Virgil had instructed him to examine the yellow sub's hull for something about the size of a grapefruit half, magnetically clamped and blinking, but the transmitter didn't prove easy to find. Not in all _this_ mess.

As he visually inspected Thunderbird 4, Morrissey squashed the urge to tap on her hull. Electrocution was the last thing he needed. _Did_ aim a quick wave at the main view screen pick-up, just in case Gordon was watching him. Five minutes later, he found the contact transmitter unit, just in front of 4's starboard maneuvering jet. It was wedged in there good and tight, too.

Deactivation proved problematic, and in the end, Alec had to don gloves, smash the thing with a crowbar and pull out its innards to stop it from functioning. He couldn't get Gordon out, though. That was going to take Brains and a robot maintenance crew.

No, Gordon was stuck, but they could talk through the comm now, at least, once the aquanaut made his status report. That was something. Morrissey perched himself on the steel rail of a walkway and let his friend ramble, only half listening to his advice about marriage and kids. For the most part, Alec forced himself to look and act nearly normal. Once or twice, he came damn close to telling Gordon what had happened, but always, he caught himself. Always, he didn't dare risk his wife's last shred of safety.

And right to the last, nobody got it. Nobody doubted him. Why should they, when he fit the organization so perfectly? Except that, in the midst of all this good will and camaraderie, there had never been a lonelier, more wretched and terrified man.

For his own part, Gordon Tracy was stiff and sore, but in excellent spirits. As soon as they reached the island and rumbled into the hangar, Brains got to work prying him free of Thunderbird 4. On the bright side, his predicament led Scott to excuse him from the post-mission debrief. On the less happy side, it also brought TinTin, looking bleak and concerned.

He'd rather have met her upstairs, away from the battered hulk of his Thunderbird, once he'd had time to shower, change and make a few repairs. No help for it, though, and nothing to do but make the best of things. She kissed and embraced him as soon as he emerged through the hatch, shouldering Brains out of the way with a murmured,

"Pardon, Monsieur!"

Worse, she started to cry, clutching at his uniform and shaking him.

"It's all right, Angel. I'm fine," he said to his wife, patting her heaving back. "Bit damp, is all."

But she didn't seem comforted. Hackenbacker wandered off to give them some privacy, but he had work to do, so Gordon led TinTin out of the pod and into the bustling hangar.

"Seriously," he repeated, "I'm fine. Nothing happened, and nothing ever will, because I've got everything in the world to come back to."

She looked up at him with tear-filled dark eyes, graceful and sad as a swan.

"Gordon," she whispered, "there is something I must tell you. Back when… Non, let me start over. I meant to say that I had a dream, once, in that time when you were missing, after our flight to Lima. Do you recall our trip there, Gordon, before we were married?"

"Vaguely," he admitted, having curious gaps in his memory, still.

TinTin nodded, seemed to take counsel with herself, and then struggled on, saying,

"Well… I dreamed that you had been killed, then; shot many times and thrown in the water to drown."

She began shaking again. Concerned, Gordon pulled her close and made as if to kiss her, but TinTin rushed on with her story, holding him off for awhile.

"In that time… that dream… I would gladly have torn my own heart out and placed it within your chest, so that it might beat for you, and bring you once more to life. Only… Only, someone else did it, first. In my dream, that is."

She sniffled mightily, shivering at something he honestly couldn't recall. Then, growing steadier again, TinTin looked him right in the eye and went on.

"What I wished to tell you was that I might survive without you, for the little ones' sake, but I would not _live._ In this dream, I thought that you had been given a second chance, but I cannot believe, Mon Coeur, that there will be a third. Please… _please…_ if this friend of Scott proves acceptable, and possibly Alan returns… would you not think of doing something else? Something safer?"

Gordon was quiet for a time, holding her close while the notion sank in and took hold. All at once, he recalled that moment during the battle with 253, when the thought of TinTin and Clairey had turned him aside from stupid bravado. The thought of his wife and child alone, missing him. The littlest never to know him, at all…

"Tell you what, Angel," he decided at last, tipping her wet face upward with a gentle hand. "If Alec works out, and someone can talk Alan off the racing circuit… I'll take a few years off. Work in the corporate office, or something. Or the Paris branch, if you like. Need to brush up on my French, anyhow."

She threw herself at him with a glad little cry, mingling laughter and kisses. Nearly knocked him unconscious in the process, too.

"And… (Ow! Think you've broken my nose!) … Back off a bit, Angel… In the meantime, I'll be nothing but careful. Safe as houses, I swear t' you."

In that moment, there wasn't a happier woman than TinTin Kyrano-Tracy.


	10. 10: Reflection

Got my laptop fixed, and also a pretty bad case of the flu (which is mostly wrapped up, now). Thanks for all the reviews and comments...! =) Edited.

**10: Reflection**

_Wharton Academy's artifact room, shrouded in doubt and confusion-_

"Okay, that's enough!" Richard snapped loudly. His words startled everyone out of their viewing-daze, and paused the worrisome data file. For once, he actually looked and sounded like an uncle; like the strong (if adopted) son of Jeff Tracy.

"We've been watching for hours, and we're no closer to finding the answer than we were when Fermat first dragged us all over here!"

The young genius drew himself up to his full five-foot-three, stung by Ricky's accusation.

"W- Wait a minute," he objected, glasses flashing blue light. "I n- never dragged anyone _anywhere. _I j- just…"

"Whatever," Ricky cut in, upset and needing someone to blame. "The point is, we've been watching days' worth of archive scenes, and maybe nothing's going on out _there…"_ he pointed around at the stilled room and, by implication, everything else. "…but I'm sure feeling it, _here."_

Rick Tracy tapped at his own aching forehead with two fingers, adding,

"And it's getting hard to think straight. Bottom line is, I need a break, and so do you guys."

Janey chewed on the inside of her lower lip, thinking as well as she could. How much video _had_ they sat through, here in their tight little bubble of non-time? Two days' worth? Three?

She started to speak, but then somebody else stirred beside her, shaking a head as blond as their missing father's.

"Hold on. We haven't found out what happened, yet!" Ian protested stubbornly, looking over at Fermat, Daniel and Sam for support. But Daniel and Fermat were starting to yawn, while Sam only said,

"The past will not go away or get any darker for a brief delay, Ian. We must rest and eat, if we hope to understand what we're seeing."

Sometimes, Sam Nakamura was all kid; knee-deep in comic books and video games. At other times, he was wise and aloof. Almost noble, and often correct.

Some yards away from him, Claire Tracy had started to scowl. Having been so many years robbed of her father and beloved uncles, she didn't want to stop watching them. Sensing this, Janey smoothed her young cousin's untidy auburn hair and said,

"Clairey-girl, they're right. We need some sleep if we're going to get anything accomplished. Look," she held up a quieting hand before the storm of protests could break, "…I'll ask if it's okay to pause and start up again, after a break. And if it's not, we'll stay here. I promise. Okay?"

But it _wasn't _okay. Not by almost half a lifetime of missing a certain loud voice and playful, warm presence. Not by a vanished baby sister and sad, quiet mom. Claire would have said so, too, but something in Jane's expression made her look down at the carpeted floor, instead, and just nod. Janey had been without _her_ dad even longer than Claire, and she didn't have a mom anymore, either. If _she_ said it was better to wait…

"Okay," the younger child muttered, not looking up. "If we can come right back and not miss anything." Her voice wobbled a bit, at the end, but she didn't cry. It wasn't a Tracy thing to do. Not in front of others, anyway.

Jane hugged her for a moment, and then pivoted to face the blue, sparking avatar. It hung in midair above a glass display case, looking like something out of a neon Tokyo street-advert.

"Can we do that?" she asked the blue cereal bear/ help-desk rep. "Go away and come back to see more, I mean?"

"And c- could we… open up the d- data file in a… new l- location?" Fermat inquired further. "L- Like in one of the old… steam t- tunnels?"

Little ripples and pulses of energy flashed across Crunchy Bear's surface, sometimes breaking free to drift through the room in a swarm of faint motes.

_"It is permissible to interrupt and resume transmission," _replied the holographic bear, having apparently checked to be sure. _"Location of resumed contact is unimportant, so long as the transmitter remains intact and functional."_

"Meaning that if we break or lose Fermat's phone, we're stuck out of luck," Ricky summarized crossly. "Maybe I ought to hang on to it."

"N- Not unless you… want to f- field dozens of c- calls from my… mom and d- dad," Fermat objected, hands at his hips. "T- They're pretty OCD, and… th- they might… wonder w- why I'm not… answering."

"Yeah? Well…"

Whatever. Claire left the boys to their argument. Turning away, she dragged her older cousin by the hand to where Crunchy Bear shimmered and floated in the musty artifact room. Her up-turned face tinted softly blue, dark eyes at once stubborn and pleading, she said,

"You'll still be there when we call back, right? You won't not answer? I really miss my dad, and I really want him and Uncle Virge and Uncle John and Aunt Linda back. Promise you'll be there? And answer the phone right away?"

A string of non-time moments sparked by in relative silence. Then,

_"You have accessed a program, not a living entity. The persistence of this program and the mechanisms which support it are subject to circumstances beyond the ability of this program to control. However, when summoned, if able, this program will respond to Claire Tracy or her proxies."_

Claire couldn't hug the gleaming blue icon, but she could kiss the tips of her fingers at him, like mom sometimes did at _her._

"I believe you," she told the avatar, "and I hope things turn out okay where you are. I mean… like someone comes in and turns on the lights for work, and stuff."

Three thousand years was a long time to wait for someone to come 'round and wake you from nightmare, and she couldn't help feeling bad for the poor cartoon avatar.

In the event, Fermat got to keep his smart phone, on the strict condition that he wouldn't try accessing anything out of the ordinary until they were all back together, again. There was one thing handled. The next, returning to normal-time, had to be carefully thought over, because it would never do to just vanish from Grinder's sight, or the security cameras', either. Their reappearance had to be seamless.

The kids positioned themselves like a wax-work tableau, so that the caretaker would notice nothing amiss but alarms and shouts when reality bumped into full swing. The help-desk icon counted down, smoothly shrinking away to a faint point of light. Then time and motion came back, just as though nothing had ever happened.

They still got an ear-ringing lecture from Mr. Grinder, with plentiful threats of detention for disturbing the peace of his artifact rooms. No matter. The secret that the young Tracys carried was enough to see them through six solid months of scraping gum off of chairs, and cleaning out classrooms. It would have brought them safely through Hades.

They paused outside of the administration building, mildly surprised to find nothing much changed. The same sun was still setting, the same quiet breeze blowing its rumor of pine trees and dinner their way, while a stuttering, chattering lawn sprinkler cast long, swirling streamers of water.

"Tomorrow night?" asked Janey, before they headed back to the cafeteria for sirloin tips and asparagus. Six heads nodded weary assent.

"Where?" she probed further, leaving the final decision to Ricky. After all, he was oldest, and liked feeling important.

"I like Fermat's idea," he said, nodding at the tired young polymath. "The steam tunnels, under the library, then take the west branch. There's nothing out that way, so we won't be bothered. Any objections?"

There were none, possibly because of the deep, numbing exhaustion that had crept over them all. At a guess, they'd been awake for over two days of non-time, watching the past unwind like a ball of snarled wool.

"Okay, then, the tunnels it is. See you then, stay out of trouble, and whatever you do, Fermat, _don't lose that phone!"_

Jane shuddered. It seemed almost like cursing, even to mention the possibility. Light-headed with hunger, she and Claire next followed the rest in to supper, hitting the student book store on the way for great armfuls of sugary snacks. Afterward, somewhat recharged, they headed back up to the girls' dormitory.

In the old days, it had been named after a tree of some kind, or a stately colonial patriarch. Good enough, then, but as females were now among the student body at Wharton Academy, the board of trustees had decided to re-christen it "the Susan B. Anthony Building". More correct and broad minded that way, you understand.

Made not a dang bit of difference at the moment, though, because all Janey wanted to do was shower and collapse in her bunk like a petrified tree. She hugged Claire again at the top of the first stone landing, and here they parted company. Upperclassmen and plebes were not housed in the same rooms, no matter their family relationship.

"See you tomorrow, Girl-of-the-World," she yawned, using a nickname her mother had often called _her._ "Sleep good."

"G'night, Jane. It's gonna be okay. I _know_ it is. I've got a feeling," Claire told her fiercely. Like Aunt TinTin, the auburn-haired girl sometimes got hunches and insights. Janey smiled and tousled Claire's head.

"Works for me. Now, go to bed. _Scamper_! We've got a bunch of changes to make tomorrow, and we've got to be sharp."

Her young cousin nodded and then turned to race down the south hallway. Janey waited a little bit, because Claire always paused to wave at her before dashing off through the doors to the junior girls' dormitory. Although surely just a silhouette from that distance, Janey always waved back. Then her cousin was gone, and the older girl was free to trudge up the stairs to her own shared living space.

There were so many scenes, ideas and feelings tangled up in Jane's head that she found it difficult to settle down for the night. Once safely past the night proctor, she reached the stone common room. There, several friends tried to call her over for hot chocolate and a round of Mah-Jong, but Jane only smiled and kept going.

Upstairs in the brightly tiled shower room, the water was hot and the soap gently fragrant. Janey clouded up a little, recalling her parents' tales of the sputtering showers and rough, unscented soap crystals on Mars. Somehow, they'd made all that privation and hardship sound fun, as though anything was bearable, with the people you loved.

"Guys," she whispered, while water hissed and drummed, and the curtain billowed, "I'm going to find you, okay? I mean it. Clairey's got a feeling about it. You remember Claire, right? My cousin? She sees things sometimes, just like Aunt TinTin. Anyway… wherever you are, you've got to hang on, 'cause we're coming to help."

One good thing about showers was, whatever the planet, no one could tell you were crying. Not even in the stall right next door.

When the tears and water cut off, Janey plucked a towel from the brass hook by her shower stall, and wrapped it as close as a soft hug. But that was all the weakness she'd allow herself that night, or any other. You could worry, she figured, or be confident… and the world didn't need more worriers.

"I mean it," she repeated to the mostly empty bathroom and a few mildly curious faces.

Somebody mentioned Michael James Hamilton, but for once this Adonis wasn't tugging at Janey's mind or emotions. Pile up enough Mikes to reach Mars, and then she'd be interested, again. (But only in climbing.)

When Janey got to her poster-and-book strewn dorm room, she found Regina Steele already there, flopped on the couch and texting her boyfriend Rinaldo. Evidently, Reg had decided to skip dinner in favor of long-distance romance and a bikini-sized figure. Continuing to text, she waved an elbow at Jane, then glanced up, did a double-take, and said,

"You been crying, girl?"

"No," Janey lied. "It's just pollen. I've, um… developed an allergy."

"Oh."

Reggie rolled onto her stomach, kicking both bare feet in the air. Like most people her age, she could talk, study and text at the same time.

"There's some ginger-ale in the fridge," she said, carelessly, "…and you can have some of my allergy meds, if you like. I can always get more from dad's secretary."

"Thanks. I'm okay, Reggie. Say hi to Rin-_AL_-do for me."

Regina put out her tongue at Janey, but the gesture was more mischievous than hostile. She'd met Rinaldo online, and Jane Tracy never stopped teasing her about him.

"Laugh if you want to, but I'm finally going to meet him, this weekend in Bath."

Janey stopped toweling her hair dry to stare at her friend.

_"Seriously?_ Like, in the flesh? _Where?_ Does Dalton know? Or your mom and dad?"

Regina sat up with a sudden bound, twisting her bright brocade robe all askew.

"Janey! You wouldn't tell him, would you? Not really? He's… he's… Dalton is such a big brother, sometimes! He'd find Rinaldo and break him in half!"

Jane resumed rubbing at her damp and matted blonde hair, avoiding Regina's pleading gaze for a bit. Her roommate could be a real handful, and she wasn't up to much in the way of counseling. Not tonight.

"Okay, Reg, here it is, as I see it," she finally announced, setting the towel down atop a mahogany clothes chest. "This guy could be anyone, any age. He could be some thirty-five year old creeper who weighs two-thousand pounds and lives in his mother's basement on pizza and kung-pao chicken."

"Ick," declared Reggie, wrinkling her delicate nose.

_"Exactly._ And who has a name like "Rinaldo"? Bet he's covered in spots, too."

Regina considered a moment, dreamily braiding and unbraiding her long, dark hair. Then she said,

"No… if he was ugly or dangerous, I'd know it. We're soul-mates, Janey. I'm serious. He said… well… that no one's ever understood him or touched his heart like me."

Janey made a sharp gagging sound.

"Reg, I've been surrounded by guys all my life. I've got a brother, a dad, a grandpa and five uncles, for Heaven's sake… and _none_ of them would ever say something as sappy as _that!"_

Regina tossed her head, brown eyes flaring fox-fire bright, momentarily.

"That's because they're all so… so… pedestrian. Rudimentary." Reggie smiled then, pleased to have recalled and used two of the week's vocabulary terms. "Only a sensitive, evolved spirit could respond to a poet and dreamer like Rinny."

"Okay, I just threw up in my mouth," Janey grumbled, heading for the room's purring mini-fridge. "You should hear yourself, Reg… you sound like something out of a middle-school romance novel!"

Jerking open the refrigerator door, Jane plucked out a green plastic bottle of soda, saying,

"Tell you what. I'll keep my mouth shut around Dalton, if you promise to bring me and… and…" Janey frowned thoughtfully as she considered the roll-book of likely friends and relations. "Ricky. He's pretty strong, under all that cool-guy smoothness. Bring me and Ricky to Bath with you, this weekend, and I won't say a word to Dalton, or your folks. We'll keep a low profile and just hang around. You know, in case we're needed. Otherwise, _omnes vincit…_ um, ammonite, Amish, annum… amor! That's it! _Omnes vincit amor."_

Regina got all misty-eyed then, and smiled at her Latin-mangling roommate.

"You know what, Jane Tracy? You're all right. It's a deal. I was going to tell Dalton that I planned to go shopping for makeup and party clothes, then see "Everlasting Cherish" at the Crowne Theater. That's certain to keep him away… and Ricky, too, unless you can think of a really good bribe."

But Janey's brief spurt of energy had dribbled away like the last of her ginger-ale, leaving the teenager suddenly spent.

"Lemme… think… about it," she said, yawning hugely and eyeing her soft, warm bed. "Come up… wi… sumthin'… inna morning."

"Better be something good," Regina warned, as Janey clambered onto the waiting top bunk. "I've only got a date with the handsomest, most…"

Jane didn't hear the remainder.

XXX

_Later-_

All the next day her head throbbed and her tummy rumbled. There was scarcely space for trigonometry, Latin and English literature amid all of her swift, spiky concerns.

Seriously, how was one expected to focus on dry, boring class work with three wishes, a chance to alter fate, and an air-headed roommate to consider? Especially with Dalton Steele sitting across the aisle and three desks away in her Lit class, looking eminently tell-able.

Actually, he looked slouchy, brown-haired and disinterested, and was probably doodling in that leather copy book rather than writing there. His last magnum opus had been titled "Why Football Beats the Classics", and had deservedly got him an F-… but he did have moments of surprising sentiment, like the time that he'd sprained his arm vaulting downstairs, and had to sit on the bench for two games. When allowed to play again, he'd actually teared up. Good old, lunk-headed Dalton… And Regina was right; he probably _would_ pound flat anyone who made a move on his little sister.

Rick, on the other hand, looked like a tight-coiled spring. He kept making eye-contact with Janey and then glancing aside before something burst out that he was evidently dying to say. Jane couldn't blame him. The hours droned on like a swarm of trapped flies. Like the teachers, for that matter. Even switching classes didn't help much.

Sines and cosines mingled and fought with the plural nominative masculine case, and with iambic pentameter in Janey's head, making an utter hash of her lessons.

…And the clock-hands had never crept slower. Finally, _finally,_ her classes were done for the day. Jane fairly exploded from her wooden desk when last bell rang, not even noticing Miss Chanin's look of surprise and confusion. Couldn't help noticing Dalton, though. At six-foot-two, one-hundred-eighty-five pounds, there was so very much of him, right in her path.

"Jane," he said, hooking both thumbs in the belt of his school uniform and smiling blandly down at her, "…you been staring at me all day. Is something on your mind? About this weekend, I mean? Reg was going to go shopping in town, and I planned go along and keep her out of trouble. Did you want to come with me… with _us,_ that is? Grab a pizza, or something?"

Janey's ears started buzzing, and her face turned bright, flaming red. Worse, Ricky was all at once there, with an incredibly handsome Michael James Hamilton at his side.

"Um…" she said, cogently. She had to say something; _anything_, before Rick and her idol realized what was happening. "Sure!" Janey squeaked. "That sounds great, Dalton. I'll tell Reggie!"

The human brick wall beamed like a prize-winner and reached out to squeeze her shoulder, causing Rick to look from one to the other in bemusement. Michael… that raven-haired boarding school godling… seemed utterly crestfallen. Janey swallowed hard and gave all of them a bright, unseeing smile. Maybe, in all the hoped-for past-changing, there was a way to unplug an online romance and unsay a dumb-butt, bone-headed _sure?_

XXX

_That evening-_

She met with her uncle, brother, cousin and friends in an abandoned old steam tunnel, just before dinner time. Impatient and knotted inside, Janey wanted to get right back to the archive files. Maybe Sam was right, and the past had nothing better to do than drum its ethereal fingers, but Jane was in a hurry; anxious to leap on that temporal bull and wrestle it down to the ground.

The steam tunnels were drafty and dark, with wisps of grey cobweb that streamed and spun in each passing gust. Overhead and lining the walls were many long pipes sheathed in tattered insulation. Once, these pipes had carried steam from an old boiler room to heat the surrounding buildings. Now, they lay quiet and provided a space for secret meetings.

They spread quite a way below campus, giving the bolder, more venturesome students a goal and a hiding place. Naturally, the tunnels were forbidden territory; barred by many locks and guarded by electronic eyes. Just as naturally, the students regularly bypassed all this, and kept right on coming.

Tonight, the tunnels provided Janey, her family and friends a haven in which to plan and make ready. Daniel and Sam were the last to show up, having been held up by Math League.

"Hey, guys!" Daniel panted, on reaching the others. "We didn't miss anything, did we?"

Ricky shook his head, looking faintly sinister in the glow of a handheld LED lamp.

"Nope. We waited for you," the handsome Eurasian boy told them. "We're a team, right? You can't operate with only half of a team. Nobody can."

Not even the Thunderbirds. Turning to look at Fermat, Ricky said,

"You ready?"

"Y- Yes," answered their friend, pulling the smart phone out of his pants' pocket. "I'm all s- set, Ricky. Everybody else? C- Claire?"

The young girl nodded, stepping nervously closer to Jane. For her, too, the day had seemed endless; breakfast and lunch just a bunch of dry lumps to be gulped and forced down.

"I'm ready," she said, adding, "Right as rain," to sound more like her father. Claire wanted to see him again, was all; to reach into one of those archive files and haul him right out, along with Uncle Virge. But first, Claire knew, they must have the whole story.

Fermat took a deep breath, gave his gathered friends a brave smile, and then began tapping and scrolling away at his smart phone. A few seconds later, the help-desk responded.

_"Alert. You have accessed Nexus Central Authority's after-time help desk. Please state your request within the next ten standard time-bits, or this link will be severed."_

Fermat grinned so hard that the wire rims of his glasses rode up past his eyebrows.

"Hi, there," he said to the dry, crackling voice. "It's m- me, Fermat H- Hackenbacker. R- Remember?"

_"Fermat Hackenbacker/ Kurt Bremmerman is acknowledged. Do you wish to resume previous help session? Yes/ No."_

"Yes, b- by all… means, resume," Fermat commanded, taking a firmer grip on his valuable cell phone. Once again, a holographic projection of that ancient, corroded device was projected into the air; fixed and functional. Then a bright ruby pulse shot forth from it, stilling the world all around them.

In its wake, Crunchy Bear formed once more, and never had Janey been gladder to see an insipid, bright-blue cartoon figure. Beside her, Claire actually waved at the thing, miming a hug.

"We're back," she said, "and this time, we're not gonna leave until we find out what happened and what we can do about it."

Said the shining blue avatar, now lighting up the inside of a dusty old steam tunnel,

_"This unit will comply with the requests of Claire Tracy in so far as it is able. Do you wish to resume data-file transmission?"_

Crunchy Bear, they noticed, tended to become more personal in the course of conversation. Maybe disused programs, too, could get lonely?

"Go for it," Ricky commanded, because he was oldest. "Start from right after Gordon got back to the Island, and then… how about checking in on Mister Alec's wife? I mean, if we knew where she was, maybe we could get a message to back-then's Alan, and he could go rescue her."

Something like dawn broke on each of their faces, from worried Janey to morose, lanky Ian… from startled Fermat to gaping Daniel and fidgeting Claire. Only Sam, who never got much excited, didn't look like he'd just been hit with molten gold lightning.

_"Commencing transmission," _said Crunchy Bear, filling their tunnel with things and people long past.


	11. 11: Enough Rope

Woo-hoo! Done, and with time enough to go read Bee's and Tikatu's stories! Didn't get a chance to write yesterday, because I was helping my daughter with AP English. Thanks, Bee, Bubzchoc, Tikatu and Ship's Cat, for reviewing. =) Edited.

**11: Enough Rope**

_Tracy Island, many years previous-_

A man fated to hang will never be drowned, it's been said, and if ever a man had a hanging conscience, it was Alec Morrissey; alone among friends, and despairing. Guilty and furtive, he was, afraid for his wife, and afraid of what her captor would next try to force him to do. Pictures were one thing, but what if the next request proved more dangerous for the Tracys? What then?

Gordon was late coming out of his 'Bird that evening, leaving Alec in the company of Virgil, Brains and Scott. Might've been okay if they'd let him just sit there and absorb the conversation, but Scott expected him to comment on the mission and suggest possible improvements. Not in any official sense… they weren't in debrief, yet. But as soon as he and Virgil strode from the hangar and into the office, the blizzard of questions began. Even Mrs. Tracy, who'd brought up a tray of smoking food and hot coffee, got into the act, saying,

"It was a little nerve-wracking, losing touch with Gordon, like that. Maybe there's a way to keep him linked with Island Base, on some kind of private line?"

The question was general, but she was looking at Alec when she said it. Thought and worry tugged at her fine, penciled brows and creased her pale forehead, adding depth to Lucinda's considerable beauty.

Accepting a cup of coffee with gallons of cream and enough sugar to stand the spoon up, Alec said,

"I don't know about that, Ma'am. Any link between the ocean and surface would require a transmitter. Even if they weren't able to read the message, someone could surely track the signal… unless you could come up with a carrier wave that doesn't use any of the standard frequencies."

Hackenbacker paused to think, literally with his fork halfway from plate to mouth. Then,

"Ripples in a hyper-dimensional matrix," he muttered, dropping the fork with a sharp clatter. Next he began patting his pockets for pencil and paper, still talking to himself in low, searching tones. Scott had a pen, as it happened. So did Alec, because a pilot soon learned to be always prepared.

"Well, we've lost _him_ for the evening," Scott grumped, watching the engineer scribble designs and equations on a napkin. "When John was here…"

He let the statement just hang there, looking inward rather than at the gathered others. They could all have finished that sentence differently. When John was here…

_"…Brains would have finished his figuring, quicker."_

_"…Contact would never have been lost between Thunderbird 4_ _and the desk."_

_"…That wretched mining sub would have been hacked and reprogrammed in five short minutes."_

_"…We wouldn't have been so damn blind!"_

But he wasn't there, or Alan, either, and the family was coping as best they could; bringing Alec aboard to help take up the slack. Between mouthfuls of savoury pot-roast, Virgil said,

"Might be a good idea to arm Thunderbird 4 better… Gordon got lucky using the laser and cutting arm, but all he managed to do was stall that monster… and sooner or later, we're gonna run up against something you can't scare with a flashlight and pocketknife."

The French-doors were open, letting a mingled wind-and-sea murmur in, but the sound was as low as that of the muted view screens. Shadows were beginning to gather and pool in their subtle way; stretching themselves a bit closer whenever your back was turned. Referring to Virgil's suggestion, Scott said,

"It's a weight thing, Virge. Packing more ordnance on 4 would turn her into a floating damn tank, and then she'd need bigger engines, more fuel… She's a rescue sub, not a fighter craft. _That_ kind of thing, we're supposed to be leaving to WASP."

There was a touch of silver at his temples, now, Alec noticed. No lines on the face, though, or softening of the tall, rangy form. Scott Tracy was rock-hard and lighting-quick, yet, and probably would be for years. Looking around at the Tracys, Alec fingered the cell phone in his pocket. Time and again, he thought of asking for help. Time and again, Louise's pretty face… her silvery laugh… sprang to his mind, choking the impulse quite dead.

His thoughts were diverted when Gordon came into the room from one of those nifty hidden elevators. TinTin was with him, and they both looked a little disheveled, un-tucked and slightly out of breath. _Must've_ _been a long ride_, Alec thought, smiling wistfully. Across from him, Virgil grinned and Scott shook his head, but Hackenbacker never looked up from his calculations, and Mrs. Tracy (like most mothers) noticed nothing she didn't want to see.

It was then that the debriefing began in earnest, and also then that a short message was delivered to Alec's cell phone. Feeling it vibrate in his left trouser pocket, he turned all at once just as cold and bloodless as a vampirized corpse. The room seemed alternately to shrink and expand with the throbbing pulse in Alec's head. Food was ashes and the talk, endless.

He pled headache… on-coming flu… something like that, and managed to get out of most of their post-mortem bull session. Got a strange look from TinTin once, though; just when he was at his most pressed and panicked. The message, Alec wondered frantically… how long would it remain on his phone?

Then one of the house view screens clicked and flashed, cutting on to reveal the old man, Jeff Tracy. He was sitting up in bed with Kyrano standing alongside, and with something important to say.

"Dad," Scott welcomed his father's image, nodding slightly. "We're glad you could join us. What's on your mind, Sir?"

Half of Jeff's craggy face moved in the ghost of a smile. His hair had gone shocking white by this time, and he'd lost a great deal of weight, but the man and magnate whose portraits hung all over the house was clearly still in there. With fumbling slowness, Jeff reached a curled hand forth to tap at the keyboard in front of him. And as each word took shape, a voice synthesizer spoke for the man, saying,

_"Armed… aquatic… remotes… released… same… time… four."_

Puzzled, Alec turned to look at Gordon, who'd taken a seat beside him on the big leather sofa.

"How does _he _know what we've been talking about?" Bird Dog whispered.

In a quiet, side-of-the-mouth murmur the aquanaut replied,

"Dad has partial access to all mission board data and comm lines, both house and vehicles. Not management access, mind you, because we can't have two control centers. But he can hear and see everything. Had the system link put in a few years ago, directly after his last stroke."

"Oh…" Alec nodded, wincing at the thought of Jeff's powerful mind in that faltering cage. _Hell of a way to go,_ he thought, _in pieces, like that._

In the meantime, Scott had stood up from the desk to say,

"Dad, that's a worthwhile idea, especially if the remotes can be programmed to send a false Thunderbird 4 locator signal as well as fight. I'll get Brains right on it, Sir."

Again came that flicker of a smile, from a once-strong man too proud to slur or stumble in front of his family. The synthesizer next said, in a robotic copy of Jeff's own voice,

_"Thought… of… it…watching… mission… Gordon… too… isolated… down… below… Dangerous."_

The red-head leaned past his wife on the couch to say,

"Thanks, Dad, but it's Thunderbird 3 needs the backup. At least I've got WASP, late as they usually are. But Alan… or whoever takes 3 into orbit… is pretty much all on his own, up there."

"What about Spectrum?" Virgil cut in, having by now scraped the pattern and three helpings of pot-roast off his plate.

"What about 'em?" Growled Scott. "They've got their own agenda, Virge, and they're deep in bed with the government. Anything Spectrum does for us, they'll want back in spades, and report straight to the authorities."

For the first time, Brains looked up from his work. He'd pulled out a data-pad by now, but ceased clicking and sliding long enough to say,

"A- And I don't, ah… don't t- trust them around our, ah… our t- technology. Every time I d- debut a new, ah… new d- design, it appears s- six months later with, ah… with different d- decals and a few minor m- modifications as one of th- theirs!"

Nodding once, Brains gave a short, outraged sniff and then returned to his oft-stolen work. All of this, Alec watched and listened to, feeling like the soul was being torn out of him with hundreds of sharp, biting hooks. His phone vibrated twice more before he was able to excuse himself and head for the privacy of an empty room. Jeff's library, as it turned out.

Closing the wooden doors behind him, Alec slipped into a calm, leather-bound and gold-leafed oasis. Heavy drapes let in a sliver of fading sunlight. Deep amber cognac gleamed from a cut-crystal decanter atop the mahogany reading table. An antique ivory chess set was ready for play, beside a large, free-standing globe done in gems and rare wood. A leather and brass telescope, too, graced the room, inscribed: _J. M. Tracy._

_Feels like a damn museum,_ Alec thought distractedly, as he fumbled the phone out of his pocket. Fingers jittering rapidly over the virtual keyboard, he pulled up the first message. It was a link, to which he was ordered to send those quick, half-assed photographs.

Alec sweated and stood there a minute, under a slow-spinning ceiling fan. He was a good, solid man under most circumstances, and it took a gut-wrenching effort for him to stab the back of an old friend. But along with the link were the awful words:

_'She was asking for you, Alec.'_

A dry sob escaped him. Hating himself, he clicked on that link and sent the pictures, anyhow. After that, another text message came up.

_'Where are you, Alec? She's so pretty when she cries, and I'm getting bored.'_

"I sent them,"' he whispered to the sluggish air and dim shadows. "I sent your damn pictures!"

Rushing to open the last message, Bird Dog dropped his phone, grabbed for it and then caught it once more in midair. His heart and breathing were so loud by this time, they could probably hear him in Fresno. Just a number, it turned out to be, with a strange area code.

_10-895-426-1700_

Alec hurriedly locked the number into his phone's address book, and then called it, too scared to breathe. Three rings crawled past, then…

_"Hello, Alec. You've been taking your time, again."_

"I… we had a… had a business meeting. I couldn't break away. But I'm here now, and I sent the pictures you wanted. Is Louise all right? You said she was asking for me. Can I…?"

_"That was before, Alec. She's much quieter, now. I have a way with women."_

_Oh, God,_ he thought.

"Just, please… let me talk to her. I just need to hear her voice, is all. I need to be sure that…"

_"You need to do as you're told, Alec. I got your pictures, and they're very nice for an amateur. You do fine work under pressure. Now, there's just one more little thing, and then you can have whatever's left of sweet, sweet Louise. Are you ready to help her, Alec? Would you like your wife back? She was certainly calling for you, this evening."_

"You sonuvabitch…!" Alec snarled, seeing nothing but flashes of red, and tasting hot metal.

_"Tsk. That'll cost her. Maybe I'll finish her up and try someone else with ties to the Tracy family. The children have friends… and children scare easy. They're so much fun to play with."_

"NO! Listen to me, please, whoever you are. I'll do it! What do you want? A couple of data files? Some blackmail pictures? Just don't hurt her, please! I'll do what you want. I promise!"

There was silence on the other end, and then a rapid series of beeps. Startled, Alec pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at its screen. He wasn't a coder, or anything, but even he could recognize a long, executable program when he saw one.

"What the…?"

Putting the phone back into listening position, he whispered,

"What is it? What's it for?"

_"Oh… just a little cold. A little bug for the system. All you have to do is upload it in one of the __vehicles__, Alec. We'll take care of the rest."_

Morrissey didn't have the strength to play dumb. He knew precisely what sort of vehicle his tormenter was hinting about.

"Which one?" he asked in a dry, shattered voice.

_"That doesn't matter, Alec. Once one catches it, they all will. Now, be a good boy, play ball, and pray for that nice, happy ending. Everybody loves a happy ending, right, Alec?"_

"Don't hurt her," was all he could say in response. All he got back in reply was a shrill, mocking dial tone. But elsewhere, Bird Dog was being discussed.

"Is all quite well with your friend?" TinTin asked, walking hand in hand with her husband. The debriefing had ended at last, and they were on their way through the halls of the massive house to Claire's battered room suite.

"How d'you mean 'well'?" said Gordon, mind not very much in the question. "His wife's expecting, and he's a thousand miles away from her, learning to break the law risking his neck. 'Well' would seem kind of relative, under the circumstances."

TinTin frowned thoughtfully, at the same time rubbing a hand on her soft and barely-there belly.

"I am most serious, Mon Couer. There is something gravely troubling Alec, but the waking thoughts of this small one make it difficult to learn more. And then, too, my mind and heart incline to yours and to Claire's, so that I must struggle to listen to the inner voice of any other."

"Huh," Gordon grunted tiredly. The sun had set, and he always felt less energetic, more out of sorts, with its passing. "Well, I suppose I could just ask him… but I don't like to pester, Angel, in case it's something personal. What if he and Louise are fighting?"

TinTin's head tilted to one side for a moment as though she were listening. Her dark silken curtain of hair brushed over that perfect face, leading Gordon to smile and gently push it back behind her left ear. Frowning again, she said,

"Yes… it is to do with his wife. There is pain and fear, but… ah, non, ma petite! Do not fret! I will cease!" To Gordon, she murmured, "The little one does not like me to listen so far, touching such anguish."

Gordon embraced his lovely wife, soothing her with kisses and a gentle back-massage. Slowly, her muscles relaxed under his expertly kneading hands and she leaned up against him, closing her eyes.

"Shh…" he said. "That's all right, Angel. Th' two of you rest and forget all about it. I'll ask him, myself, over a few beers. He looks like a seven-beer man, to me."

Her face tilted up, soft as a fawn's.

"Seven-beer man?"

"Exactly. Three... and he's telling you all about his job and lady friends. Five... and we're mates for life. Seven... and he's crying over lost love and his cheap bastard of a father. Seen it before, and I'll pry it all out of him, no problem."

TinTin made an exasperated noise.

"Don't come home drunk," she told him, in a tone between laughter and pleading. "Claire cannot abide the scent of beer."

"Drunk, no," Gordon assured her, grinning in that maddening/ wonderful way of his. _"Tipsy…?"_ he held his left thumb and forefinger up, just millimeters apart. "Maybe a touch."

It was impossible to stay angry with him; not with a tiny child inside, already mentally reaching for papa. So TinTin kissed him, instead, pushing away all the night's fear and confusion. Drowning it all in deep love.

XXX

_Wharton Academy, in an abandoned steam tunnel-_

Claire, too, was reaching as though she could feel the thoughts of that lost little other. Her cousins and uncle were less distracted, though. Folding his arms, Ricky said,

"Bet it's a computer virus he wants Mr. Alec to upload. Bet it wrecks the Birds' control systems, or something."

"Th- That seems… likely," Fermat agreed, scuffing patterns in the dust with his sneaker. "I just w- wish that… Mr. Morrissey had t- taken a longer… look at it. Unless…" He looked up at the quietly shimmering image of Crunchy Bear, their extremely patient help-desk rep.

"Unless th- the code has b- been… archived, somehow. Do y- _you_ have a copy, sir?"

The glowing blue avatar flickered once, and then said,

_"The malware code produced and sent to Alec Morrissey/ Bird Dog on the occasion in question is researchable. It has not been stored in its entirety, due to the hazardous nature of its content."_

"Uh-huh," said Ricky, plucking at his lower lip. "So it _was_ a virus. But there were gunmen involved in the plot, too. Gordon reported being shot at, just before, um… you know. Everything happened. They had to come from somewhere, and that makes me doubt that this phone guy is so crazy, or that he's working alone."

Ian shifted position suddenly. He'd been leaning against the pipe-covered tunnel wall, blank and still as a stick-figure. Now he stepped forward and said,

"What about your idea of checking on Mr. Alec's wife? I mean… she's been kidnapped, right? Shouldn't we be trying to rescue _her,_ first? If she got free and called Mr. Alec, he'd never have to upload that virus. Problem solved, Q.E.D." Looking around himself through a shock of pale-blond hair, Ian Tracy added,

"I don't think Mr. Alec meant to hurt anyone, and he didn't want any money from Grandpa, either. I think he was scared for his wife."

That suggestion was met with cold, clotted silence. Only the hiss and spatter of Crunchy Bear's image could be heard for many breaths thereafter. But it's very hard, sometimes, letting go of old hatred. Then Sam Nakamura backed up his friend, saying,

"I agree with Ian. It seems to me that Mr. Morrissey felt forced to behave as he did. "

Claire whirled on him, then, like a small, auburn-haired fury.

"Would _you, _Sam?" she demanded tearfully. "Would you do something to hurt us, if someone caught your mom or your brother?"

Sam was very still and quiet for a moment. Then he said,

"Like you, Claire, I spring from a family of considerable wealth and power. Kidnap attempts are not new to me. No, I would not respond in that way to such a threat… but Mr. Morrissey did not grow up as we have, with family compounds, private islands, body guards and staggering wealth. This came to him, possibly, like a thunderbolt. Let us see what has happened with Mrs. Morrissey, and how she can be assisted. This is Ian's thought, and it sounds good to me."

Ricky glanced over at Jane, who gave him a nod and said,

"Yeah. I'm with Sam and Ian on this one, Rick… and so is Clairey, once she stops sulking. Just, um…" She turned uneasily to face the flickering avatar.

"…There's kids here, okay? I mean, if something really awful's going on… I mean to say…"

"That guy on the phone sounds pretty sick," Daniel supplied, hugging himself. "Can you do, like…PG-13, or something? My mom would freak if she knew I was watching a horror movie. I'm not allowed."

Except that it wasn't a movie. It was their awful, frightening past. Said the avatar,

_"The term PG-13 has been researched. Appropriate measures will be taken during all subsequent archive transmissions to prevent unacceptable images of violence or reproduction from being accessed by juvenile sentients."_

Janey smiled at the slowly rotating bear.

"Thanks for understanding," she told him. "We're ready to see what happened to... how Mr. Alec's wife is doing."

XXX

_California, in an underground bunker of concrete and steel-_

Becoming a little bit imprisoned was like being a little bit pregnant. Not possible. Realizing this, Louise Alice Coates, the new Mrs. Morrissey and temporary mother, was starting to grow concerned.

She was a Red Path agent who believed in her cause, and had done since university. Following certain persuasive others, she'd come to believe that there was a bright new future ahead on a clean Earth, for the select few who deserved their spot in Eden. But she wasn't stupid.

Having been called upon to tart herself up and attract this pilot friend of the vile Tracys… having caught, married and then allowed herself to become pregnant by the man… she knew that her time and her usefulness were limited. Once Alec bent to her "captor's" pressure, Louise Morrissey was nothing but a dangerous liability.

She'd thought herself one of the elect. Now, locked in an underground cell, given meaningless praise every day with her rations, Louise understood that she was one more broken stone in the bloody and awful Red Path.

This should have filled her with a martyr's pride. Instead, as she sat on a bunk in her cold, windowless cell, Louise laced her fingers together and fought the urge to cry. She'd married a stranger, and there was another stranger growing inside of her. And, very probably, they were all three going to die, having gotten no closer to knowing each other than this.

A few tears slipped from her wide blue eyes. Ducking her head (for there were cameras), Louise whispered,

"Alec… I'm so sorry. And I'm so scared. I'm never going to see you again, ever… but maybe, if it had been for real… maybe I would have fallen in love with you. I just… please help us. Somebody, help us."

XXX

_Wharton-_

It was Ricky, this time, who stopped everything by lunging toward the life-sized transmission, saying,

"It's okay, Aunt Louise! We'll…"

Then, stopping short in the midst of a million bright, wheeling pixels, Rick blinked around at his startled companions.

_"Aunt_ Louise?" Janey repeated, staring at her red-faced uncle.

"Yeah… I dunno." He raked a hand through his thick black hair, like Scott sometimes did. "For a second, it's like I knew her."

"Or l- like you… were r- remembering a possible past," Fermat suggested, giving Ricky an out. "One where all of this was p- patched up and… changed for th- the better."

Rick nodded thoughtfully, doing that lip thing, again.

"Maybe that means we're going to succeed at this," he told the others. "All we need is the last few pieces, and a strategy." Hurrying back to the help-desk avatar, Richard Tracy said,

"Okay, assuming that Mr. Alec _did_ upload that virus, fast forward to the Grand Canyon mission. It's time to find out exactly what happened."


	12. 12: Outrage

Warning. It was tough to write, and may be hard to read.

**12: Outrage**

_Tracy Island, a long time before-_

One thing leads to another, and the webs binding future and past are horribly strong. Alec Morrissey bided his time before loading that virus; waiting until he returned from a mission to a typhoon-struck observatory on the island of Hawaii. A very near one, that had been, and eerily like to their last simulation; with shrieking high winds and lashing rains that twice nearly drove Thunderbird 2 into the side of Mauna Kea.

Lowering the basket under such conditions was impossible. Gordon would have been swatted aside like a helmeted fly. They'd had to wait for the storm's eye to pass, and only the edge, at that, for its track was erratic and swift, barely creasing the summit.

What Gordon saw, when he was finally, hurriedly dropped, was glistening rock and a bright silver dome lit up with flashes of lightning, close by a giant wall of flowing dark cloud. The smell was of wet stone, metal and seawater. Down he plunged, while the storm raged on just a thousand yards distant, throaty and savage. Thunderbird 2 rumbled and purred overhead, meanwhile, blocking the stars and that circular patch of clear sky.

Below, flashlight beams waved in broad arcs. Six frightened climbers shouted and waved at him, desperate for help. They'd ignored warning signs and evacuation orders for a clear shot at the mountain trail, only to be caught on the summit ridge by Typhoon Inez. College kids; a little drunk, and with a correspondingly firm sense of their own immortality. They were certainly changing that mindset, now.

Near blind from the rain... time and again almost hurled from the mountain by gale-force blasts... they'd taken refuge by the evacuated Gemini Telescope and called for assistance. International Rescue responded at once, daring 153-mile-an-hour winds to reach the storm-wracked summit of Mauna Kea. Working fast, it had taken all the skill that Virgil possessed to hold his course and then thread the typhoon's eye to the spot where six half-drowned people were trapped.

Alec could have uploaded the virus at any point, but lives were at stake, here, and he thought that, well… If he waited until they got back to Island Base for repairs, perhaps Brains would spot the intrusion and cure it, before the next mission took place.

Not that Alec was thinking all this, at the time. No way, no how. He'd seen tempests, before (in the rearview mirror, usually). But to fly into the rumbling, growling heart of a monster like Inez was another thing entirely. Morrissey's jaw dropped like a rock and remained on the deck as he watched Virgil brave storm winds and lightning, coming as close to the purplish eye-wall as possible. Static hissed and lights flashed each time Thunderbird 2 was hit, but the big girl's shields absorbed all of the excess energy, keeping Gordon uncooked below.

Not just riding along, this time, Alec handled the comm and basket winch, probably the simplest jobs on Earth. It was Gordon who took the biggest risk, while assuring them that he was as safe as houses and only in danger of falling asleep. Alec laughed a little, joking,

_"You'd better make it down there and back in one piece, mister, because you still own me some beers!"_

Gordon Tracy grinned up through his helmet at the great, flat belly of Thunderbird 2. From his point of view, he was entirely stable. It was the whole crazy world that was tilting and pivoting.

"Don't worry, old man," he said, as the rescue basket dropped past a cliff face of streaming dark cloud. "I wouldn't miss the chance to drink you under the table. Ought to be pretty quick, if you've only had Scott to practice with. He's in bed with a mask over his eyes and curlers in his hair by eight, every night."

No doubt, his oldest brother was turning dead white at the desk, just then… but the joke was worth it.

_"Watch the name-dropping,"_ Virgil cautioned, cutting in. _"And get ready to take on a few passengers. The storm's shifting fast, and things are about to get ugly."_

"Understood," Gordon responded, peering down through the basket floor for a better look at those wavering flashlight beams and pale, upturned faces. They were scared, down there. Hell, in a way, so was he… but it was the tense, life-in-the-teeth-of-disaster kind of scared that he secretly craved; all adrenaline-rush and bright clarity. What more could a man ask?

They were frantically glad to see him, when Gordon's basket touched down on the bare, sodden mountaintop with a rattle and scrape.

"Good evening, folks," he told them, opening the basket's metal mesh side. "I'm with International Rescue, and I'm here to help."

"Thank God!" someone clamored, diving within. "Thank you! Hurry, please, it's getting closer!"

They'd all piled aboard, then, soggy and freezing… and too damn many. It wasn't six, now, but eight people; two more having crept to the summit since Thunderbird 2 set off from the island. Too heavy to lift in conditions like these.

With that tidal wave simulation still fresh in his mind, Gordon made the only decision possible. He leapt out of the basket, himself, warning Virgil and Alec when the load was already halfway home, and Thunderbird 2 beginning to judder and yaw.

Morrissey would have to rush to the hold and get them all settled. Virgil… with the eye-wall thundering at him like a lightning-shot avalanche and a hold full of innocent people… Virgil had no choice at all but to leave.

Gordon cut off his helmet comm to avoid unpleasantness, and then sped over to the Gemini Observatory and picked the locks on its strong metal door. Big structure it was, sturdily built, with a deep, rocky basement. Knowing they'd worry, he sent a quick message home and then plunged through the gaping blue doorway and out of the rising wind. He'd be safe enough within, Gordon reasoned, and so would the hikers have been… if they'd only known how to jimmy a series of locks.

But he had other things to worry about, now. Down Gordon went, past empty offices and massive blue pylons, seeking to put as much distance between himself and that murdering wind as he could. Down, past the telescope's mighty gears and huge motor, as far through the rock as the building extended.

He had a small lamp, of course, but the noises; the crashing and snarling and rumbles outside, as Inez clawed and bit at his shelter! Gordon crouched low in the dimness, drinking warm Coke from a can he'd found on a shelf, listening to the Gemini Observatory creak, flex and breathe. He located an unopened bag of Cheetos as well, which he commandeered with apologies, being a bit hungry.

The only other thing he could do was wait out the storm, listening hard to the sounds of destruction and chaos. A tremendous, screeching crash announced the end of the observatory's big silver dome and long telescope. The basement walls resounded for long minutes afterward like an echo chamber, making him leap to his feet, but that was as bad as it got. Well… that, and the sudden appearance of a terribly frightened black cat.

Seeking comfort, she literally climbed Gordon's uniform. Made him jump even higher, that did.

"Well, it's your own fault if you ignored evacuation orders," Gordon scolded his new friend, calming himself by stroking her fear-roughened fur. "I'm sure they called for you."

Being a cat, though, she refused to admit any wrong-doing, merely burrowing into his arms and meowing plaintively. The long, jagged night got a little less lonely after that, and he even managed to nap for awhile; crouching against one of the telescope's massive steel pylons with a cat on his chest.

His wrist comm woke him near dawn, once all the electrical interference had cleared. It was Scott, looking tense and concerned.

"Look, before you say anything, I'm _positive_ I can drink you under the table," Gordon explained. "When it comes to fluids, WASP beats Air Force, every time. And, hey… I remembered your lecture about overloading the rescue basket. Saved a cat, too. Pretty good, right?"

Scott's image started to say something twice, and both times stifled the impulse. Shaking its tiny head, his brother's picture finally said,

_"You're okay, I take it?"_

"Never better. Hardly damp, even."

_"Uh-huh. Thunderbird 2's on her way back now that Inez has cleared off. Meet your ride by Pu'u Poliahu, mister. We'll talk later."_

"… Or, we could stay right here," Gordon told the golden-eyed cat, when Scott cut off his signal, "scrounging for snack food and sodas. Bet the astronomers wouldn't notice."

He was already moving as he said this, though, setting his good friend the cat on a desk. She followed him upstairs, through several warped doors and then out past a mountain of twisted and crumpled debris. Tight going, for awhile there.

Pale and sparkling, a windy morning was waiting above, bringing thin, cold air like a ringing slap to the face. He had to clench both hands in his armpits and stomp his booted feet to stay warm, blowing clouds of pure white like a whale.

"Bit chilly," he told the cat, who'd ventured no farther than the Gemini Observatory's shattered threshold. But the glorious view paid for all. From here there was only rock, wind and sky; with the island and ocean spread out far below him like one of Virgil's pastel sketches. In the distance, he could just make out Haleakala, on the island of Maui. TinTin would see it all with him later, so for her sake he turned a full circle, looking sharply at everything, from ice, dark rock and flipped-over trucks to that long row of flattened observatories.

Then it was time to start walking, for the tall cinder cone of Pu'u Poliahu lay several clicks to the southwest. High altitude made the going slow and gave him a headache. So did dodging the occasional whirring news cam. Luckily, Scott prevailed upon the island authorities to move them out of range. Then Virgil called up on his wrist comm, chewing gum and looking placid.

_"Wild night?"_ he guessed.

Gordon considered.

"Eh. Between WASP and swim team, I've had worse."

Funny how such a strong wind could stir up the whisper-thin air. Made it tough to hear, too, forcing Gordon to bring his wrist comm close to his ear for Virgil's reply.

_"Just be sure and dispose of the evidence, kiddo. Wipe any fingerprints you might've left, bag up and bring all your trash, especially food. Last thing we need is a DNA trail."_

"Right. Already done, Virgil."

…And he had the plastic rubbish bag to prove it. Only a solemn black cat remained behind to give witness, and she wasn't likely to talk.

_"What about security cameras?"_

"I checked. The electricity was out by the time I broke in, and so were all of the cameras. All reserve power went to keeping the scope's computer from being wiped out."

_"Major damage?"_

Gordon looked around again at all those missing domes and corkscrewed telescope mounts.

"You could say that. Good thing those hikers got out. They'd have blown away or frozen to death."

And in Hawaii, of all places. Damn fickle tropics! Thunderbird 2 showed up a few minutes later, looking like warmth, safety and home; gleaming bright green in the clear light of dawn.

It was Alec who rode down in the rescue basket, this time, a little bilious from the long, swaying ride. Well, so had Gordon been, the first few times. Morrissey would learn, the aquanaut told himself.

"You certainly trashed the place," Alec said with a smile, when Gordon vaulted from Pu'u Poliahu and over the basket's side. "Didn't they take out the pink jelly beans, like you asked?"

"Nothing of the sort," Gordon corrected, shaking the proffered hand. "Just that Inez and I had a brief misunderstanding. I had to get rough with her."

"All set!" Morrissey called over his helmet comm, needlessly tugging at the basket's steel cable. "Hit the winch!"

They began moving upward; first dragging across the lava-rock ground, and then starting to spin. Still a long, swinging ride, but at least there was someone else there. Someone to focus on. This being a good time for a private chat, Gordon waved farewell to a certain dark feline and then turned back to Alec, saying,

"Talking of storms, how're things with Louise? TinTin always gets a bit… erm… emotional, when she's expecting. Most females do, I've heard."

Alec's head snapped around and then forward, but the helmet's face shield made it impossible to read his expression.

"Um…" he began. "She's…"

"Being difficult?" Gordon supplied.

Morrissey's uniformed shoulders drooped. Clutching tight to the basket's rim, he nodded.

"Something like that. I just… I wish…"

"You want me t' have TinTin give her a call? Times like these, females get quite a strong herd instinct. She might just need steadying."

"Uh… not yet, Gordon, please. They… _she_ might take it the wrong way. Lemme… let me try to work things out on my own, okay? And… and I'm doing my best to… I don't want…"

Gordon clapped Alec on the shoulder, for the man seemed about to break down. Friends don't let friends lose control in public, was the Tracys' motto, so he said,

"Chin up, mate. She'll correct her course again, just as soon as the hormones wear off. Believe me, I _know_. All that's wanted is a bit of patience. She can't help herself."

"No," Alec admitted quietly. "She can't. It's all up to me."

Gordon was quite pleased by the way his friend's spine stiffened and his head lifted up. _Good man,_ he thought proudly. There was soon no more time to think about wives, though, for they'd reached the level of 2's open hold, and had to secure the basket.

Alec did all the work this time, prompted by Gordon, who kind-heartedly explained every step. Bit of a process, but he got it all done in fair time. As Coach Fox had used to say: _stamina first, then speed._

When the hold doors finally boomed shut upon icy daylight, and the basket was locked into place, the two friends headed up to the cockpit. Gordon checked in with Virgil, who gave him a roughly affectionate, one-armed embrace. Then the tired young man went back to the Bird's crew cabin for a bit of a wash and a lie-down. He was sound asleep when they reached Tracy Island, and had to be shaken awake by his brother.

"Come on, rise n' shine, water-sprout!" Virgil commanded. "Scott's not in the mood for delay. I'd plead the fifth, if I was you."

"Or leave now, and start a new life for myself," Gordon joked, stretching and yawning like a strong ginger cat. "He's probably going for the death sentence."

Hovering just behind Virgil, Alec flinched; but there was no time to ask why. Besides, Gordon and Virgil would just have put it all down to nerves. He trailed them a bit on the way out of 2, looking glumly around at the big, heavy 'Bird.

_Like a man headed for the gallows,_ was Gordon's impression, before other things claimed his attention. Very loud, very serious things. Yes, Gordon Tracy got a ringing earful, from Scott and Lucy both. And yes, Alec was able to upload his tormentor's virus; in plenty of time to be found, just like he'd planned.

Only, Brains was too preoccupied with designing that new communications system to run the normal system checks, and John wasn't there to remind him. Morrissey's last hope for redemption vanished entirely by nine the next morning, when an alert came in from Arizona. A passenger plane had gone down in the Grand Canyon, taking 46 people right along with it.

Reports indicated a few survivors, condition unknown. Plotted and staged, of course, though no one on Tracy Island guessed at the time. Only Red Path and their latest recruits from the mind-wiping Cell.

"This is going to be another workout for Thunderbird 2," Scott decided, with Jeff's approval.

Their father was watching and listening, needless to say, never realizing that the system which gave him such free access had long since been hacked.

"…but I'll head there, first, in Thunderbird 1. Something… I dunno. I feel like I ought to be there this time, to help out. Brains, mom… you've got the desk on this one. TinTin, stand by. Alec and Gordon, you're with Virgil. Take the Firefly pod, and no screw-ups or foolish heroics, this time. I mean it, Gordon!"

Scott rose from his post as he talked, gaining his feet in one strong, fluid motion. Lucy came around the desk of her husband's old office to kiss her son's cheek.

"Be careful," she whispered. "All of you. We'll have supper waiting."

Scott embraced his fretting blonde mother.

"It's going to be fine, mom. We're headed for the States, and I'll be along to keep an eye on things. You could warn Alan, though, so he doesn't try to drive out there and join us. You know how he gets."

Lucy took hold of herself and nodded staunchly, gazing up at her confident son. Nearby, TinTin and Gordon were locked in a fond, murmuring embrace.

"Back before you know it, Angel," he promised her. "Kiss Claire for me, and try t' stay off your feet." Almost the last thing he'd say to either of them, ever again.

_"Good… luck… boys,"_ came Jeff's transmitted, mechanized voice. _"Watch… canyon… wall… and… wind."_

"No problem, dad," Virgil assured him. "I've been flying that 'Bird since she was fresh off the showroom floor. She hasn't got any stunts up her sleeve I haven't already seen. Like Gordon says, we'll be back before you know it."

Only Alec held back, placing a folded slip of paper near Hackenbacker, who was too busy scanning the danger zone to notice. Then they were off; first silvery Thunderbird 1 and then Thunderbird 2, in great gouts of flame and of world-shredding noise.

Little things danced on the path which led up to tragedy; secrets, collusion, a bit of paper unknowingly swept from the desktop. Big things, too; like hatred and cold, patient malice. You see, International Rescue had to succeed in avoiding trouble each time they flew out, while their enemies need be successful just once.

Thunderbird 1 soon outstripped her lumbering sister, while remaining in constant radio contact that spread Red Path's awful payload from one to the other like plague. Back to Island Base and Thunderbird 5, even.

Unaware of all this, Scott Tracy flew onward, glad to be back at the stick, again. Took him twelve minutes to reach Arizona, then thirty-five seconds more to find a perch near the vast and cloudy Grand Canyon. Not a good day for flying, he decided, scanning the rumpled landscape below. Occasional breaks in the mist showed the plane in three sparking pieces, spilling luggage and people all over the river and broad canyon floor.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1. ETA?"

_"Five more minutes, Thunderbird 1,"_ Alec responded, adding, _"Five minutes, twenty-two seconds, that is. Sorry."_

Scott smiled at that, recalling Virgil's ongoing mania for exact time.

"Got it. Pour on all the speed you can muster, people. It's looking bad, down there."

_"FAB,"_ said Morrissey, for the first and last time. _"We're flooring it."_

He wasn't lying, either. Thunderbird 2 eclipsed the sun overhead just a few minutes later. Scott clicked the mike in acknowledgement, and kept right on talking to Base and the Park Service. Meanwhile, Virgil bit his lip and scanned the red canyon floor.

"We're gonna have to get close," he muttered, adding, "Alec, Gordon, hold on tight and be ready to move."

Suited up and ready to go, they were already headed for Firefly.

_"Understood, Virgil," _Gordon called back, a little tensely. _"How about making a pass with the flame retardant, first? Put out any fires below."_

"Funny you should mention that," Virgil told him, eyes on the looming canyon. "Scott just said the same thing. I'm gonna have to bank pretty hard to do it, though. There's a lot of wind, and that wreckage couldn't be situated worse if someone had planned all this. Hold tight, we're going in."

A final snapshot: Virgil Tracy, dark-haired and handsome, his brown eyes intent on the downed plane and huddled or crawling survivors, his big hands strong on the yoke. Gordon Tracy, mostly hidden behind his helmet and suit, standing with legs braced well apart and one hand on a long metal railing. Alec Morrissey, sick with regret and confusion, standing nearby, both hands clenched to the very same guard rail.

"Gordon," he said, just as Thunderbird 2 began heeling over, "There's something…"

"You'll do fine, Alec. Just follow my lead and stay close. I'll keep you straight."

He didn't sense treachery any more than Virgil or Scott saw the gunmen clustered near the crash site. They couldn't; not with virus-crippled scanners and a blinkered and empty Thunderbird 5. Nor could Brains, at the desk.

It happened sickeningly fast. All at once, Virgil Tracy was no longer in control of his 'Bird. A spotter down on the ground was. All of a sudden, Scott Tracy could no more take off from the north rim than fly to the Moon. And Island Base was entirely blind. Hijacked news cams caught it all, though; transmitting horrible images and a gloating voice-over to every receiving station, TV and laptop the world over.

Thunderbird 2 flipped upside-down and smashed directly into the canyon's south wall. Her shields flared and then fell, doused by the virus. Her blunt nose crumpled like tinfoil against the brightly-striped wall, screeching and rending to bits.

Sparks and flame flew, then she tumbled like a broken-winged bird, plunging for the canyon floor and those screaming survivors. The impact was a crunching and terrible thing, splitting the Firefly's pod; smashing God knows how many.

Inside, in a smoldering, torn-apart hold, Gordon battled to regain his footing. There were no alarms and no sprinklers, for some reason, but he heard the rattle and pop of gunfire; felt bullets whine past him like hornets. Both men ducked down at once, sheltering behind a twisted bulkhead. From somewhere above came the muffled noise of explosion and flames.

"Shots fired!" he shouted over his helmet comm to whoever was listening. "Scott, we're alive and we need fire control! I'm going after Virgil!"

But Alec, who'd wobbled upright once more in the smoky-dim hold, seized his arm.

"Gordon, no! For God's sake, listen to me. This is a trap, it's gotta be! Let's just…"

The aquanaut shook him off, saying,

"Alec, get out. Get to safety! Do whatever you can for the plane crash survivors until Scott arrives. I've got to help Virgil!"

"But…"

"He's my brother, dammit! I'm not going to leave him!"

And then he was gone, scrambling amid shattered struts and collapsed hull plates. Alec hesitated momentarily, as torn and helpless as Thunderbird 2. Then fire blazed up, closing the path that Gordon had taken. He might have… Please, God… imagined the cries that came afterward, but not the voice on his helmet comm.

_"Bravo, Alec. Well done. And by the way… she's one of us. Louise was in it all along, Alec. Take that to your hero's grave."_

What was left to do but turn and run from the broken hulk of Thunderbird 2; from himself and the men he'd destroyed? While thousands of miles away, TinTin clutched her head, shrieking, and a faint little heart stopped its beating. While a sorrowing mother fell to the floor, blinded by tears and denial. While Scott Tracy fought a dead stick and dark instruments, trying like mad to get to his brothers.

As for Louise, her Red Path keepers didn't have to kill her. All they had to do was seal up that door and walk out, forever. All they had to do was leave, smiling, to greet their lightened new world.


	13. 13: Aftershock

Peering deep down in the box for a flutter of hope...

Edited.

**13: Aftershock**

_Long before, but never forgotten-_

Journalists, leaders and populace… the world… had been utterly stunned. No one seeing those images, hearing that cold, taunting voice, could forget them. Thunderbird 2 burnt fast and hot; spreading fuel and radioactive contaminants all over the tortured red landscape. Secondary explosions rocked the canyon floor, triggering massive rockslides and driving away most would-be rescuers.

Persistent mist and thin, grey drizzle formed an eerie halo around the smoldering wreck, which was far too hot to approach. At last nothing was left but a black, hulking corpse, like the remains of a stranded whale or a raptor-torn brontosaur. Nothing but ruin and loss.

_"Look well,"_ hissed the voice, which only Alec Morrissey would have recognized. _"See what becomes of those who've sold the Earth for technology. See how the grasping Tracys have been crushed and brought low by Red Path. They will not be the last."_

Scott heard it, too, though he couldn't respond, trapped as he was in a dead and locked Thunderbird 1. All of his raging, all of his threats, split knuckles and torn fingernails were spent on a hatch that just wouldn't open, and a hijacked comm system which wouldn't allow him to transmit. Not even shooting the hatches or cargo door helped, for Brains had designed too well, never thinking that someday the Bird's defenses might be seized and turned against Scott.

Its hijackers might have done anything at all with Thunderbird 1 and her anguished pilot, including fly them at top speed into a building or theme park. Perhaps they'd even meant to, but the Tracy's lone shred of luck soon appeared in the form of the Spectrum sky-ship _Ark Royal._

The sky-ship was vast and dark, like a soaring volcanic island escorted by clouds of fighter craft. Within minutes of her arrival, all reporters, park rangers and tourists were driven away. Soon after that, local authority was superseded by the world government. A stasis field was next clamped on the site (only _just_ missing Alec Morrissey, who'd shed his blue outer uniform and melted away through the mist). Sick with grief and regret, all he wanted to do was escape, leaving scores of unintended victims and two friends still burning behind him. He would not be seen again for quite some time.

With the stasis field up, Spectrum's agents could pick off the gunmen and spotter like ducks on a frozen pond. Others saw to the few remaining plane-crash survivors and Scott (who had to be drugged insensible before they were able to remove him from the site of his brothers' undoing.)

They'd had to work fast. The presence of one Tracy could have been mere heroics on the part of a spoilt and thrill-seeking billionaire. Two of them were tougher to pass off, though it was certainly possible for one brother to influence a younger sibling. But _three…?_

The only explanation for three Tracys would have been the Red Path/ Cell assertion that International Rescue had been plotted and funded by Jeff Tracy, and its vehicles flown by his five adult sons. Spectrum denied all this, though; quietly removing the two IR bodies and setting a decontamination pulse to burn away any residual DNA. They even bandaged the worst of Scott's outer hurts and got him back to the island in secret.

What they could _not_ do, however, was help Jeff Tracy to produce two living sons for the inquest which speedily followed. Virgil and Gordon were gone, and the family was left shattered and heartbroken without them.

On top of all this, a storm of law suits threatened to burst, egged on by the mental control of the Cell. Only a World Gov decree prevented the courts from tearing Tracy Aerospace to bits. After all, the government attorneys argued, there was no definite proof of the corporation's involvement. Not with the Thunderbird designs and Hiram Hackenbacker in Spectrum "protective custody", and the island stripped of incriminating evidence.

Colonel White was a thorough and patient man. He got the cleansing job done before the public inspectors arrived, and then had the Tracys borne away aboard the _Ark Royal._ There was a price involved, though. Always and ever, a price.

Called into Colonel White's office aboard the huge sky-ship, they'd been surprised and hopeful, at first, to discover that only two bodies had been recovered from Thunderbird 2.

"Someone survived," Alan blurted, from his seat facing Colonel White's desk. Scott was there, too, with Lucy, Kyrano and Brains. "Bet you it's Gordon. He probably got another concussion, and he's down in a hospital, somewhere!"

"Or Virge," Scott put in softly, lifting his eyes from the military-beige carpet for the first time. "Virgil might have made it. He's, um… he's always been pretty tough."

Colonel White's expression softened briefly. He wasn't an utterly heartless man, just very businesslike and quick to seize opportunity. Stroking his big silver moustache, the Spectrum officer shook his head.

"Lieutenant Danvers, the note and _other_ item," he said, signaling to a young and pretty assistant.

Danvers came forward, passing slowly among the seated Tracys with a plastic evidence bag and a folded, soiled blue uniform on her bright metal tray. There was a creased bit of notepaper inside the bag, upon which someone had written in pen:

_Brains, you need to check the Birds' computers, __please__. They're infected. This mission is a trap. I'm sorry._

The handwriting, like the uniform, was Morrissey's. Seeing this, Lucy slumped in her seat. Alan began cursing in a low, savage voice. Beside him, Scott put his head in both bandaged hands. His breathing was rough and labored for awhile, and a few tears slid past the woven cage of his fingers. No one else spoke for a bit, though Lucy rose from her chair to console her grieving and guilt-ridden son.

"We'll search for Morrissey," said the colonel, after clearing his throat a bit. "In this day and age, Mrs. Tracy, there are few places where a traitor and outlaw can hide. In the meantime, you are to do _nothing_, any of you, except be model citizens. Go to work, do your jobs, raise the children, and stay out of trouble. This deal I've brokered is terribly fragile, and should one of you choose to come forth with guns blazing," White's narrow gaze swept over the stunned Tracys.

"…I will be unable to protect you further. Do you understand? No vengeance, no scheming, no off-the-cuff rescues. The little ones and young Mrs. Tracy are very vulnerable, as is your husband, madam. Another stroke would finish him."

Lucy bowed her head at this comment, resting against Scott's broad shoulder. The cloth of his shirt became very wet in that spot, but he hardly noticed. If he could've gone back in time, Scott would have shot himself before he answered that damn phone call. Now, all he could do was to say, without looking up,

"We understand you, Colonel… and up to a point, we'll obey. But if Alec Morrissey ever crosses my line of sight, in any disguise, I'm going to kill him. With my bare hands, if I have to."

The colonel smiled wearily.

"Fair enough, Mr. Tracy," he said, gesturing Danvers out of the room. "It's my job to make sure that he doesn't put in an appearance. Now,"

White levered himself out of his seat and came around the big desk to face them directly. Behind him, the cabin's viewport displayed a slow-creeping image of sun-drenched mountains and purplish cloud shadow, but he paid it no mind, saying,

"…I've arranged to have counselors attend to the children and young Mrs. Tracy. According to reports, none of them are in any shape to be exhibited publicly, though your brother, Richard, may be all right to start school in the fall. The little girl won't leave her mother, who remains in deep trauma. Your father is under sedation and close watch, still. The other two…" (He meant Ian and Janey.) "…are keeping very quiet. They won't speak to the counselors."

Scott gave White a brief nod by way of answer, but the news was too much to take in. There were decisions to make. Plans to set into motion. Only… He looked around at the rest of his family, then, not sure that they'd trust him, still. Not certain they'd want him to lead them. There was no blame in the faces around him, though. Instead, Alan, Lucy, Brains and Kyrano looked to Scott as though hoping for strength and direction.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he helped his mother back to her chair and said,

"We need to go home, Colonel. Back to the island. Hiding aboard a Spectrum ship won't stop Red Path from making accusations… and if there are any cameras to face, I'll do the talking. Or Alan, if he feels like dealing with reporters."

The blond young man nodded vigorously, reaching across the space between them to give Scott's shoulder a brief squeeze.

"I'll beat them away from mom and the kids, Scott. You keep TA from tanking."

In the aftermath of a crippling body blow, all they could do was apply a few bandages and try to start over. Scott acknowledged his brother's offer with the wavering ghost of a smile.

"I appreciate it, Al… and everything you've done, as well, Colonel. When can we start for home?"

White glanced at a monitor screen by his desk. Coded pixels swirled and cascaded, revealing the will of someone high enough placed in World Gov to command anonymity.

"Tomorrow morning," announced the colonel, obeying his hidden superior. "My detox team is still at work on your home computer system. Everything else… the contraband programs and computing devices… will be removed along with the Thunderbird vehicles. Dr. Hackenbacker is going to remain here for awhile to explain them to us, but he'll be returned to you soon enough, I promise. You'll have him back before you know it."

Those had been Gordon's words, almost, and now they stabbed like a knife blade; one more hurt in an ocean of trouble. Not troubling to reply, Scott Tracy gathered his family together and left Colonel White's office. At dawn, broken and weary, they went home.

XXX

_Wharton Academy, in one of the dusty, abandoned steam tunnels-_

Claire was making a thin, reedy sound; like a kitten that someone had stepped on. Moving quickly, her uncle went to the shaking young girl and put his hands on her shoulders.

"They were found in the crew cabin together. _Together,_ Clairey! Virge and your dad weren't alone when it happened. They had someone then… and now they've got us. It's gonna be fine, okay? We can fix this."

The question was, _how?_ Keeping his youngest niece close, Rick turned his big, dark eyes on the others.

"Ideas, people?" he asked, looking from Janey to Ian to Fermat, Daniel and Sam.

"We could rush into Thunderbird 2 with fire extinguishers, and help them get out," Daniel suggested, leaping about the tunnel and miming enthusiastic chemical blasts.

"M- More likely… get killed, ourselves," Fermat told his blond comrade. "W- We're kids, remember? Except for R- Ricky, here… none of us are very strong. And h- how would we… explain our presence? I d- didn't spend th- that much time with Virgil and Gordon…" (He'd mostly been raised off the island, by his mother.) "But I d- doubt they were… stupid. They're bound t- to ask questions we c- can't answer."

"Often the best response is the simplest," offered Sam, frowning a little. He was shorter than Daniel and Fermat, both, and barely taller than Clairey. "If one falling leaf triggers a landslide, you must catch that leaf as it drops."

"I don't get it," said Ricky. "Leaves? Landslides? We're talking about Morrissey and the way he frickin' stabbed my brothers in the back! How do we stop _that,_ Sam-wise?"

Rick still had his arm around Claire, who pulled her wet face away from his shirt and said,

"What if we call Uncle Alan, like you were talking about? He could go over and save Mr. Alec's wife, and then she'd tell him not to load in that virus."

Seemed like a good idea, but Janey hesitated. Turning to look once again at their friend, the whirling blue avatar, she said,

"Can you speculate, at all? Like, show us a what-if, I mean? What if we called Alan and gave him a mysterious tip to go rescue Louise? What would happen, then?"

The floating help-desk rep shimmered and sparked for a bit in silence. Then it spoke to her, saying,

_"Access to alternate timelines regained. Access reduced to those alternates deviating only at nexus point AlanTracy135612A47-x2-12/y/~. Alternates blended, averaged and renormalized. Projecting most probable result of stated activity."_

Another scene appeared before them suddenly, but this one seemed rather fuzzy, as though composed of many files pieced together. In its bright glow, the insulated pipes and low ceiling wavered and faded away. She'd expected immediate answers, but instead Janey started to blush and cover her eyes.

Alan Tracy, fresh off the practice track… sweaty, grimy and reeking of fuel… hit the racing team locker room just in time to hear his phone ring. Could've been anybody, as the ring tone didn't correspond to a family member. But being the sociable sort (and loving his fans) Alan dug the phone out of his locker and picked up, anyhow.

"Alan Tracy, fastest thing on four wheels," he boasted, clenching the phone between one shoulder and the side of his head whilst he stripped off that grubby red coverall. "What can I do you for?"

A strange, muffled voice came across the device, halting Al with one arm and half of his torso still enmeshed.

"_Alan… is that you?__"_ said the strange voice, which sounded the way a girl would, if she were aping a guy… or like somebody young pretending to be older.

"Uh, yeah… Alan Tracy, the one and only bold, beautiful speed-god. Only fast where it counts. Who's this?"

"_This is somebody else you don't know yet, with a message."_

"Uh-huh. Very funny," Al grumped, peeling off more of the coverall. "Did Gordon put you up to this? Is he listening in? 'Cause I'm not falling for the old "hey, stud, meet me at midnight on top of the Trans-America building," again! Not if it's going to be crowded with all my old girlfriends and baby-sitters!"

He was down to his sweat-stained tee shirt, tube socks and jockey shorts, now; with the smelly boots kicked off and slumping like drunks in a corner.

"_No, Alan. This is really serious. There's a lady that you gotta go rescue. She's in trouble with Red Path. They've locked her up underground, and if you don't rescue her, she'll die alone in the dark. She's Mr. Alec's wife, and they're using her to make him hurt International Rescue. You gotta go save her!"_

This time, the voice had his attention, though Alan was still plenty suspicious. Nor would he give away anything over the phone.

"International Rescue?" he repeated, managing to sound confused. "Why do they need me? Shouldn't you just call the cops, or something?"

He'd found a pencil stub and a scrap of paper, though, and looked ready to write down an address, if one was forthcoming.

"_No, we can't,"_ said the voice. _"She'll be in danger if anyone calls the police or if the bad guys find out that you're trying to save Aunt… __Miss__ Louise. But you could maybe warn Scott, and tell him be careful."_

Alan's pencil stub tapped the side of his bristling gold jaw for a moment. Taking a seat on one of the locker room's varnished pine benches, he said,

"Listen, how old are you? How did you get this number, and how do you know about Morrissey?"

Tracing the cracks between blue floor tiles with his big toe, Alan concentrated, hard.

"_I'm pretty old. Twenty-one. But __it's not important how I got your number, or how I know all this stuff about IR. What matters is saving Miss Louise before Mr. Alec does something terrible. You gotta go find her, Alan. We got a phone number off of his cell phone and tracked it down, plus checked it with, um… a helpful friend you don't know. The place where she's locked up is an old nuclear defense bunker out in the Sonora Desert. Just follow these coordinates, and you can't miss her."_

Something beeped on his cell phone, and Alan reflexively pulled it away from his ear to check the small screen. A string of numbers flashed up, triggering his geo-find app and a satellite map. Sure enough, it was out in the desert.

"Am I supposed to go alone?" he asked, cautiously. At this point, it seemed ridiculous to keep denying his link to International Rescue. Obviously, the mystery caller knew better. "Can I bring a few operatives with me?"

"_Uh… sure. I guess so. That might be smart. Lady Penelope's__ pretty good at sneaking around and I think she's… yeah… she's in Los Angeles, right now, at a party. Why not call her up?"_

Why not? Because after a long drive under diamond-hard stars, after veering far from any hope of assistance, Alan and Lady Penelope were detected by motion sensors. The speed and general configuration of their vehicle… its lack of a "friend" transmitter… and the result of a face-recognition scan… doomed the car's passengers before they got anywhere close to that bunker.

Alan was blasting along at nearly a hundred miles an hour when a double set of road-spikes sprang up, shredding the tires of his bright red Maserati. All at once lamed, the beautiful sports car spun violently out of control. Metal screeched. Sparks flew up in wild golden arcs. Glass shattered and plastic crunched. Then, just about the time that the car and its limp, wounded passengers stopped rolling, a fire storm of bullets tore through the night, and their bodies.

XXX

_Wharton Academy, in genuine horror and guilt-_

"Okay, no. Never mind," Janey cried out, deeply shaken. "One or two people can't do it, and they'd probably just kill her if we called in the police. Even if, y'know… they believed us. We had stuff on Uncle Alan. The police would just think we're crazy."

"Or else they'd send one detective or highway patrolman, who'd just end up dead the same way. There's gotta be something else we haven't thought of," mused Ricky. "Another way to solve all this."

Claire had finally stopped crying. Wiping her face with a number of quick, rough sleeve-rubs, she walked up to Sam and took his hand. Looking squarely into his dark, almond eyes, Gordon's daughter said,

"What did you mean about catching the leaf, Sam? There's a whole whirling pile of them, here. Which one do we catch?"

Sam Nakamura was lost for a moment in looking at the prettiest, most frightening girl in his age-group at Wharton. Even then, Claire Tracy had had that effect on the male population. Only after regaining his composure and blinking a few times did Sam answer,

"Prevent the disappearance of your honored uncle, John Tracy, and that of his wife. What I have heard from Fermat and read in his astronaut memoirs reveals John Tracy to be a formidable strategist and coder. Had he been present…"

"That jacktard would never have gotten a toe-hold!" Ricky exulted, his handsome face just about glowing. "Dad's comm system wouldn't have gotten hacked by Red Path, and the virus would've been found right away!"

Janey's heart gave a sudden great leap inside of her chest. Putting a loosely clenched hand to her mouth, she bit the first knuckle of her left thumb. Looked over at Ian, then, who was looking at _her._

_Mom and dad,_ she thought, begging the universe for one really big favor. _Please let us help mom and dad._

Seeming to guess at her thoughts, Ian walked over to Crunchy Bear and told him,

"I know we don't have much credit with your bosses, but can you help find out how to save the Deimos Mission? Sam's right. Getting to the root of that situation, before everything else went wrong, would choke all the rest, maybe."

Ian Tracy looked an odd shade of silvery-blue in the avatar's light; like he'd just been dipped in fluorescent paint. The whites of his eyes even glowed, while his rust-coloured school jacket turned deep, muddy brown. Said the shimmering avatar.

_"The request of Ian Tracy is taken as a sub-routine of Claire Tracy. The request is supported. Archived data are available for viewing, if desired."_

Jane took her hand away from her mouth and nervously scrubbed it against her uniform skirt.

"It's… It's not another bad one, is it?" she asked. "I don't want to see anyone else I love getting hurt."

She just wanted to wake up from all this in a world where everyone she cared about was alive and safe and happy. She just wanted to go home.

_"A further restriction will be placed on frightening/ intense visuals,"_ promised Crunchy Bear, to Janey's tremendous relief.

"Go ahead," she said to the slowly rotating bear, "Take us as far back as launch day, and show us just what went wrong."

Seconds later, they stood on the cramped, slanted flight deck of the scout ship _Reliant_, close enough to the pilot and crew that Jane could have put a hand forth and touched her mother's helmet or her father's near shoulder.

Ian's blue eyes had got very wide, she noticed; no doubt because he didn't have all those memories of mom and dad. But like his sister, Ian was determined to notice everything. To spot any fault or discrepancy which might have caused the mission to just… vanish, halfway to Deimos.

LGMs aside, there had to be something… a wormhole, an unnoticed third moon, a loose hatch… which had brought a sudden end to their parents' flight. The answer turned out to be peculiar, and much more upsetting.

Ian and Fermat watched very closely as John Tracy input a series of 4-D coordinates, calling them out to the navigator as he did so. Bradley Parks responded by confirming each figure aloud. Nearby, Dr. Bennett and Lieutenant Rachel Cohen scanned crew and vessel, respectively. Only Josh Conti, their exo-geologist, had nothing to do.

Like the others, John Tracy wore a helmet and bright green survival suit (on Mars, red and orange were not stand-out colours). Like them, he was calm and serious… and inexplicably wrong.

It was Fermat who first saw the problem. Blinking and pushing his glasses repeatedly back up the bridge of his short nose, the boy had been punching each one of John's figures into his own PDA, and the results made his face scrunch in horror.

"Uh… g- guys… the navigational f- figures are off b- by a factor of twenty degrees in this… d- dimension, six months in t- time, and five arcs to th- the parallel! Extrapolating out, and with a l- large enough energy… surge, th- that would put them…"

"…About fifty miles into the Sun's corona," finished Ian, who'd been programming right along with his friend. "But how could nobody notice that? And why slip in coordinates that Reliant couldn't possibly reach in one jump, unless…"

John's son turned back to the avatar, which obligingly halted its archived data file.

"…Unless they were eliminated for all of that time-shifting you say my dad managed. This Nexus place would be capable of clouding everyone's thinking, if they're as powerful as you say they are, and they could probably boost the ship's drive enough to send her blasting right into the sun. Well…? How about it, help-desk? Are your bosses or one of their devices the reason my folks disappeared?"

Crunchy Bear began to skip and flicker like some sort of ancient Super-8 film reel. Its voice, when the avatar replied, seemed strangely faint and staticky.

_"The summation is accurate, Ian Tracy."_


	14. 14: Overwrite

Sorry to be so late. Lots going on, with a stolen car, choir performances, the kids' birthdays and a sister-in-law being deployed to the Middle East soon. Thank you kindly for reading and reviewing.

**14: Overwrite**

_Wharton Academy, in a dusty, forgotten steam tunnel-_

Everyone and everything appeared spattered in runnels of shifting cerulean light. Given the gut-punch news they'd just received, the kids looked pretty sick, anyhow; weird lighting only heightened the effect.

Ricky was the first to recover, possibly because he was older than his nieces, nephew and friends; partly because he'd always been quick and decisive.

"So it's a set-up, then! There's no way we can fix things, if the whole mess is Nexus' fault! You've been lying to us all along!"

Richard's dark almond eyes were just about blazing with wrath, and his handsome face had set into hard, angry lines. He'd been adopted young… just three months of age… meaning that he knew no other home or family but the Tracys. In short, John was his brother, this situation was very much his problem, and Rick meant to resolve it.

Said Fermat, speaking next,

"Hasn't everyone at N- Nexus Central b- been… out of th- the office for the l- last… two thousand y- years, or so? H- How could such… an action b- be taken by… just a r- roomful of machines?"

The avatar shimmered in muted shades of silver and wan, sickly blue. Had they not known better, the kids would have said that their bright cartoon ally seemed upset.

_"The balance of loss, gain and debt are automatic, thermodynamic processes, Fermat Hackenbacker/ Kurt Bremmerman. An accrual of debt such as that amassed by John Tracy must be redressed, regardless of sentient initiation or approval."_

"So…" Janey put in, thinking rapidly, "what you're saying is that this was done automatically, and that things might've happened differently if… if someone had been around to mind the store? Is that it?"

_"Approximately."_

Jane fiddled with her blonde hair as she considered, because keeping her hands busy had always helped her to think matters through. Gotten that trait from her mom, she had. Dad tended to sit and stare off into space or go for long walks, when he had something important to think about.

…And, _God,_ how she missed them both! Janey would've said more, but now Claire approached the blue avatar, with a look of genuine betrayal and anguish marring her small face.

"But, you're our _friend!_" the girl protested, brown eyes filling with tears. "Maybe something bad could happen before, Crunchy Bear, but you didn't know us back then! Now you _do_! You gotta help us!"

The help-desk icon might easily have stated that no such obligation was part of a mere subroutine's job description. Instead, it responded,

_"Certain actions are allowable, Claire Tracy, as repayment of the debt owed to you."_

"…But you can't tell us which ones," Ian grumped, speaking for the first time since he'd accused their glittering help-desk rep. Rubbing at one side of his jaw, the boy added, "Whatever it is, will be tricky to pull off. We couldn't just… _BANG…_ pop into _Reliant_ and reset dad's flight coordinates, or anything."

_"Disallowed,"_ agreed Crunchy Bear, dimming still further. _"Direct visual-informative causality violations are forbidden."_

"What of a suggestion or whisper?" cut in Sam Nakamura, with a slight, apologetic bow. He was normally the least obtrusive person imaginable… but these were his friends. "Might a questioning thought be implanted in the minds of John and Linda Tracy?"

"Better make it a dream," Daniel Solomon corrected his friend (not at all concerned about intrusions). "I don't know about _your_ folks, Ian, but my mom _always_ pays attention to dreams, especially if my dad shows up in one. She figures he ought to know what's going on, up there." Then Dan sort of shrugged and laughed, because the suggestion seemed goofy, even to him. Only, Janey wasn't so quick to toss the thought out.

"If Ian and I could show up in a dream for both mom and dad… and tell them what's happened with the jump coordinates…"

"You mean, like we are now?" Ian said anxiously, tugging at his dusty school uniform. "But, Jane… they wouldn't recognize me, would they?" And that would have broken the young boy's heart. He had so few solid memories of their mother and father.

"I'll tell them its you," Janey assured her pale brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry."

Ricky, Fermat and Sam were already hard at work on the proper coordinates, linking all three of their contraband PDAs for more processing power. Claire, meanwhile, kept right on talking to Crunchy Bear.

"Could I use a wish to let Janey and Ian visit their mom and dad in a dream right before the launch?" She asked the blue avatar. "I mean, it's not exactly like disturbing a timeline or telling too much that way, is it?"

_"The stated action is allowable, under clause X-52-*/12-30," _said the bear, after a millisecond's deep research.

"Then I want to do that," Claire announced rather fiercely, folding both arms across her narrow chest. "It's gonna be my first wish, just as soon as Janey and Ian know what to say, and Fermat's got a new flight plan for _Reliant._ Okay?"

The icon's colour improved dramatically, returning more nearly to its original sapphire blue.

_"The statement/ input of Claire Tracy is received and accepted," _said their digitized comrade.

"Hold on…" Janey broke in, pivoting to face her uncle. "Rick, we need some kind of code-thing, in case my dad thinks that his and mom's dream is mass hysteria or food poisoning. Tell me something you and dad know about that I _wouldn't_. Something really convincing, like an IR secret."

"Hmm…" Richard Tracy scowled for a few thoughtful seconds. "That might not work too well, Jane. I mean, not if we're trying to prove that all this hasn't come out of his subconscious. I think what you want is something _he_ wouldn't know. Like… um… Like Linda's exact weight."

Standing nearby, Fermat looked up from his key-pressing long enough to give them a stern head-shake. A shock of lank brown hair flopped between the boy's glasses and his weak blue eyes but he ignored it, saying,

"W- Won't work. John's a p- pilot. He'll… know every ounce of w- weight on that sh- ship, down to the… last r- rivet. Crew included."

"Mm-hmm," Rick agreed, unhappily plucking at his own lower lip. "We need something else, then. Something like… how 'bout the Brooklyn Dodgers' starting lineup, this season? John's a baseball maniac. He'll bite."

"Or if we convince mom, _she'll_ talk dad round. He does listen to her, you know," said Jane, a little impatiently. Why did no one ever consider the woman, in these things?

"I got it!" Daniel exploded suddenly, waving both comfortably upholstered arms. "What would your mom like for her birthday that your dad would never think of in ten million years?"

That was easy, because Janey had actually asked her mother that question, while still in the spray-painted macaroni necklace stage of gift-giving.

"She wanted a few days alone with dad, out on the astronaut beach, or somewhere else private," Jane supplied. "But he just kept giving her books and cars and diamonds."

"So _tell_ him, and then tell him to ask his wife as proof, if he doesn't believe you," said Dan, smug and blond as a Hummel figurine.

Nobody had a better suggestion, so the birthday gift code was the one they went with, once Fermat had worked out a set of proper coordinates for _Reliant._ Jane couldn't help taking Ian's hand when Claire stepped forward to pronounce her first official wish. They weren't going to have much time, and being delivered into somebody's dream sounded scary. Especially if the somebodies were your mom and dad. Especially-especially if you were trying real hard to keep them from getting killed.

Right. So, plan became reality, and the dusty old steam tunnel faded together with Claire's anxious voice. In seconds the world dropped away like a trapdoor, plunging Ian and Janey into a sudden nightmare of Doppler-streaked blackness. Frigid cold and absolute silence enveloped them for a few heart-jerking instants, during which the only warm, solid thing in the universe was Ian's tight handclasp.

A momentary confusion of redness, sour air and pitted metal interposed itself. Then a strange, shifting landscape coalesced around the young siblings, forming a backdrop of lines and numbers and oddly bright colours. Baseball scores and crewmates' vital signs swirled through the air like river currents. Piloting manuals and a Physician's Desk Reference towered beyond sight and logic. They'd made it; they were in.

Claire's wish had provided them with only three minutes, so Jane squeezed her brother's hand and shouted,

"Mom… dad…? Are you there? It's me, Janey! Ian's here, too, and he's bigger than you remember him. We both are! Please, guys, we gotta talk to you! It's important!"

Hearing her, something shifted itself from the bubbling subconscious weirdness. _Two_ somethings. A pair of idealized figures took shape, looking younger than Janey recalled her mom and dad, but definitely them.

Mom's brown eyes got very wide when she saw her partly-grown children, whom she'd only glimpsed via televid screen for many long months.

"Jane… Ian… but…" Linda Bennett-Tracy moved forward with the suddenness of dream-travel, and all at once they were being embraced. "Baby girl… little man… what are you doing here? Mars is a dangerous place!"

Ian had seriously intended to hold up his end of the rescue mission, but now he was too overcome to speak. Mom… mommy… the woman who was only a few warm kisses and hugs and tickles in his fading memory… was _here_. Ian Tracy buried his face in the warm-smelling dream stuff of mom and did his manful best not to cry. For that matter, so did Jane.

In that weird way of dreams, where you can see everything at once with perfect clarity (but can't run or scream to save your life) she was also aware that dad had come forward and was shaking his blond head.

"I've got a launch tomorrow at 4 AM sharp. I'm supposed to be confirming probe and satellite telemetry. What the hell am I doing _asleep_?"

At the sound of his voice, Ian broke free and flash-darted across to John Tracy, arriving before Linda or Janey could answer the rudely-put question.

"Dad," he said, gazing up at the tall pilot. "I'm on the baseball team at Wharton! I'm a pitcher, and Coach says with a few years seasoning, I could make first string! And… And Uncle Alan says he'll teach me to fly. I'm going to be an astronaut, Dad, just like you." Unspoken, but loud in the way of subconscious wishes was: _Please be proud of me, please say I'm doing good!_

"A pitcher, huh?" mused the dream-John, setting a slim hand on his son's shoulder. "Take care of that arm, then. Most players blow their elbows out trying for fastballs too soon. You've got to work up to it, and keep the snap loose; don't tense up too much on delivery. You'll rip the tendons."

"Yes, sir," Ian agreed, with a reverence bordering on outright worship. "I'll be real careful. We can practice together just as soon as everything's fixed, and… "

"Ian, shut up a second!" Janey sliced in, shifting the entire fluid dream-verse back to herself. "We don't have much time!"

Tear-streaked, she'd pulled herself away from their mother to say,

"Mom, Dad… the coordinates for your jump to Deimos are all wrong! They've been deliberately messed up because of some stupid junk about timelines and dad. Fermat and Sam made a better flight plan for you, though. It's right _here."_

And so it was, suddenly filling the misty sky with long rows of humming alphanumerics; burning itself into the subconscious mind of everyone present.

"I know you're going to have doubts when you wake up, guys, but you gotta believe us! If you use the coordinates you were planning to, something awful will happen, and then everything gets worse, only I'm not supposed to describe too much, in case it… it…"

"Violates causality," supplied Ian, who had a much better grasp of such things. "Too much anachronistic intel changes everything and resets the whole board. Anyway, that's what Crunchy Bear says."

Seeing her father's sceptical look, the doubt in her mother's honey-brown eyes, Janey added another tumbling rush of words.

"Listen, Dad: Mom wants to spend time with you back on Earth, for her birthday. Ask her, as soon as you wake up. She just wants a chance to be with you and… and not to worry about missions or money or lots of in-laws. Ask her, Dad, _please!_ And then put in these coordinates, not the ones from the guidance computer, okay? Please, guys? We miss you so much!"

Her father never got a chance to reply, because their time was suddenly up, and one wish gone forever. The entire weird landscape faded like mist, leaving no more behind than a pale smear of fondness and worry. Only, it wasn't Wharton's old steam tunnel network that reformed around Jane when the dream-contact ended. It was something else, entirely.


	15. 15: Axiom of Choice

Off to the races/ birthday. Will edit soon.

**15: Axiom of Choice**

_Elsewhere, and not much liking it-_

It wasn't an old dusty steam tunnel that formed once more around Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy, but a bedroom. Or, rather, the pretty good mock-up of same. Nobody, hearing that constant low machine rumble, smelling the weird, sour air, could be fooled by fake hardwood flooring or cream-plastered drywall. And no combination of illusory window scenes could belie the oddly light gravity.

Mars, Jane realized suddenly, as a flood of new memories jostled for space with the old ones. She was on Mars, in her own dug-out quarters. Sulking, because the e-net had crashed again, leaving her voiceless. Thanks to the resulting tantrum, her room was now a mess and a whole wall shelf of veteran stuffed animals had tumbled to the floor.

No… not crashed, cut off, Janey recalled all at once. She'd been grounded from talking to her friends on Earth, having already used up all her minutes and most of Ian's. Great.

Setting a purple unicorn and Mr. Bear back on their shelf, Janey next shut her useless laptop case and got off the hard bed. She was especially careful with that fragile old bear, which had been Claire's parting gift, when the small, broken family left home for Mars. No Tracy since Jeff had grown up without the much-repaired toy, who could now add "cosmic explorer" to his list of achievements.

Old past and new warred in her aching head as Jane Tracy set down the stuffed toy and crossed the room to its lone airlock/ safety door. Decompression events were not unknown, even now, and illusion only went so far. Instead of varnished wood with a crystal doorknob, the door was made of reinforced steel and featured an LED keypad. Code was easy enough, being Regina Steele's cell phone number. (Reggie, of all people; who'd gotten into more trouble than Jane could contemplate, oxy-buzzed or cold sober, and who'd accidentally gotten her big brother, Dalton, arrested. Twice. Yeah… Regina was a certifiable celeb-baby basket case, but Janey's best friend, regardless.)

Anyhow, three seconds flat, and the rebellious blonde teen was out of her room, darting along a short rocky passage to the newly familiar living room hub of her family's Mars-burrow. Ian just about collided with her by the coffee table, hurrying along in the opposite direction from his own quarters and wearing a look of deep concern.

Jane steadied her younger brother by taking hold of his thin shoulders. Survival suit material crackled just under his long-sleeved black tee shirt (an old one of dad's). The big ventilation fan throbbed overhead like a faltering heart as they started firing questions at each other.

"Ian…!"

"Jane…!"

"Are we…?"

"I dunno! I dunno anything! Where's everyone else? What's happened to…?"

Their whispered conference was cut short by the sudden emergence of Linda Bennett-Tracy, from the short corridor which led to their home unit's cramped bath/ master bedroom. Fighting an initial surge of resentment, Janey saw that her mom looked… sad and tired. Her wavy brown hair was cut short now, for want of time to keep it tidy, and for want of anyone much to impress. She wore no makeup, either. Not even lip gloss. But a wedding band gleamed on the third finger of her left hand, still. Cut down from a much larger man's ring, its breadth just about dwarfed her slim hand.

"Mom," whispered Janey, turning away from her pale, silent brother, "what's going on?"

Linda Bennett-Tracy looked at her children with the resigned air of a weary but still-fighting single parent.

"Jane, we've had this discussion, already, and nothing has changed," she grumped, scooping a bright nylon personals bag off the low coffee table. "I'm on CAPCOM tonight and you're not old enough to be left alone, so Uncle Pete and Aunt Lydia are coming over. Be respectful; he's the governor."

…And about ten-thousand years old! Secretly smoking, too, whenever he thought he could get away with it. Ick. Beside her, working around an awful snarl in his new recollections, Ian suddenly asked,

"What about dad?"

Mom's face went suddenly pale and flaccid beneath its faint surface excursion tan.

"Why would you say something like that, today of all days?" she murmured, looking away. "It's our anniversary."

A fast, sick understanding came over Janey and Ian, then. Their father was dead, still. Deimos had made an end of him and Rachel Cohen, both. They'd been exploring the rim of a crater… he'd given mom his wedding ring, like always, because the stupid thing would keep snagging inside of his spacesuit glove… and the crater had simply collapsed, plunging astronauts Tracy and Cohen to their doom in a huge silent landslide of dust and rock. The bodies had never been recovered, but there was a force field and monument erected at the site, marking the new rim of Deimos' awful Tracy-Cohen Crater. Jane stepped closer to mom, and gave her a very tight hug.

"I'm sorry," she said, fumbling for some sort of comfort. "We were only trying to…"

Her mother rested for a moment in Janey's embrace, and then Ian's. But Dr. Bennett-Tracy wasn't the sort to wallow in loss. In fact, it was _because_ today was the anniversary of her wedding to John Tracy that she'd been assigned, and accepted, extra duty. Very much, Linda needed to stay busy.

The horrible, bitter unfairness of it all suddenly threatened to choke Jane like a cloud of backed-up exhaust fumes. Everything had changed… and _nothing_ had! Her uncles, she recalled all at once, were still dead… Mr. Alec at large… Aunt TinTin a sorrowing shell… and Claire growing up on Tracy Island in a household tormented by grief.

Here on Mars, the healing bruises and scrapes on Ian's knuckles (and her own) gave testament to constant scuffles with smart-ass other kids who made comments like,

_"Hey Tracy, how's your mom and dead?"_

Or…

_"Must be nice having the school named after your old man. He really rocked! Planning any vacations out west? I hear the Grand Canyon's nice, this time of year!"_

Yeah. Real funny, butt-hole. Jane's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Seeing this, and sensing another oncoming storm, mom tensed up. But then Ian made a small movement with one hand, gesturing to the cell phone which hung at his belt. A call, no doubt from one of the worried others. Time for plan B.

"Uh… sorry, Mom. You're absolutely right, about everything. I'll never run over my comm minutes or get kicked out of class, again, and Ian apologizes for mentioning dad on your anniversary. We _totally_ understand why you need to work tonight, and we love you like crazy."

If there had ever been two more strained, suspicious-seeming grins on a pair of falsely adorable cherubs, Linda couldn't recall the sight. She started to scowl, then shook her head and kissed both kids on the cheek.

"Please… _please_ stay out of trouble, you two. And don't give Pete and Lydia a hard time. They should be here in just a few minutes, but I have to go. My shift is about to start. Be good. I mean it!"

So saying, she kissed them again, not aware that her living presence was a hard-fought gain in the children's ongoing, furious war.

"We'll do our best, Mom," Ian promised, speaking for both of them. "We love you and… and things are gonna get better, we promise."

Jane nodded vigorously, muttering,

"This isn't over."

Confused, sensing trouble, their mother would have ruined everything by staying on until Pete McCord (Uncle Governor) arrived. Fortunately, the kids managed to pack her off and out the door with appeals to her sense of duty. Only _just_ in time to network a conference call with, like, _everybody._

_"What's going on?"_ Ricky demanded tersely, from the mansion in Denver.

_"Guys, where is everybody?"_ pled Claire, from her suite on Tracy Island.

_"More importantly, c- can we… connect with th- the help-desk, still?"_ Fermat asked no one in particular, from the temporary haven of a Wharton broom closet.

He seemed pretty tense, no doubt because he'd cut class to make an unauthorized phone call with contraband tech.

_"Try," _Rick suggested. The view had cut off, but it sounded like he was getting dressed. _"You're the one with the ancient device scan on your phone, Fermat. It's probably a good sign that we all still remember what we were doing, and that we're communicating in real-time, instead of twenty-minute delays."_

Another call came in. Sam, breaking every tenet of his calm and lawful-good personality to aid his lost friends.

_"Has progress been made?"_ he enquired hopefully.

"Sort of," Ian told his friend, "but not the way we'd like, and not enough. Ferms, I got about thirty seconds before the world's loudest fake uncle comes through that airlock with ten million moldy old stories about Grandpa and Dad. Get Crunchy Bear back online, _now!"_

Snapped Fermat,

_"W- Working on it, Ian. Have… patience, p- please. It's a bit more c- complicated, this… time."_

It was just as the airlock's security keypad began beeping and blipping aloud (entry code: _Endurance_) that Fermat finally got the system back up. As before, everything external froze, and the kids plunged into a welcoming pocket of non-time. Weirdly, all were gathered as if physically close at hand, with separate, smoothly blent backdrops and Crunch Bear rotating brightly at center.

_"Alert! You have accessed…"_

"Yeah, yeah, we know!" snapped Ricky, half into a punk rock tee shirt and jeans, his coal-black hair a roughly-cut mess. "Nexus Central Authority's help desk, nobody's home, blah, blah, blah. We got the picture."

It wasn't possible for a glowing blue cereal bear to look unsettled, maybe, but something in the shape of their ally's cutesy-poo features seemed a bit off. If she'd had to describe it, Janey would have said he looked shaken, like in the commercials when Sugar-Fiend stole the secret Vitamix formula from Creamy Cloud-Land.

"Leave him alone!" Clairey fussed, whirling to face her uncle against a backdrop of tropical twilight and leaf-shadow. "Crunchy Bear did his best, and there's two more wishes, still. _Right_? Right there's two more, Crunchy Bear?"

_"Two further wishes remain, Claire Tracy," _said their help-desk rep.

"So, what went wrong with the last one?" Daniel cut in, from his perch in a Wharton bathroom stall.

_"The debt amassed by John Tracy results from the deletion/ alteration of four separate timelines, perpetrating casualties of genocidal proportions. John Tracy, through his construct, was responsible for the gamma-ray burst destruction of an entire higher-plane civilization, and the invasion/ annihilation of three separate Earths. A single death cannot balance this."_

"Then… who or what _can?"_ Janey asked him, taking a seat on the patched sofa.

The answer wasn't clearly delivered, seeming to give the avatar staticky, crackling fits. Obviously, what it wished to suggest was 180 degrees removed from Kosher, Halal and all Meatless Fridays rolled into one. But among the flickering alphanumerics now whirling around his chubby blue midsection was the command: _import Five._

Janey looked at Rick and then Ian and Claire. Like Fermat, Daniel and Sam, all were drawing a big mental blank.

"Five?" Ricky wondered aloud. "Five _what_? Five more brothers? Five new Thunderbird vehicles? What're you talking about?"

Something… a spark of knowledge or memory flowered in Janey, then. Once, in another-when, she'd had a computerized friend who'd helped her along. Told her, at times, what to do and how to stay safe. _Five_. For some reason, it was very important that this powerful, dangerous friend be returned; that it be permitted to make restitution, as her father could not.

Turning to face Claire's slice of tropical paradise, she said gently,

"Clairey, the command has to come from you. If you wish "Import Five", Crunchy Bear will do it. I sort of remember Five… She might have been a quantum computer designed by my dad, and it's a risk bringing her back, but… I don't see any other way through this that'll save all our folks and IR. It's up to you, Sweetie. Your wish, your decision."

"The axiom of choice tells us that any decision may have infinite ramifications," said Sam Nakamura, very quietly.

Claire Tracy nodded without really seeming to hear him. She bit her lip, facing something too big for a child of her age. Not that she didn't have questions.

"If Five really did all the stuff that Uncle John got blamed for… how do we know she won't make things worse, coming back?"

Then, struck by another thought, she looked up at the flickering avatar and said,

"Crunchy Bear, would bringing Five back maybe change things at Nexus? Are _they_ gone because _she_ is?"

"Like some kind of backlash effect, retroactively?" Mused Rick. "They'd have to go pretty deep and far to route her out, I'm thinking, if John designed her to be as powerful as all that."

Everyone was silent for a long, timeless instant, waiting for Clairey's decision. When she spoke, having considered matters in the best way that a young orphan could possibly manage, Claire Tracy said,

"Wish number two. Crunchy Bear- Nexus, import Five."


	16. 16: Trial and Error

Little bit more...

**16: Trial and Error**

_Brought together, from seemingly everywhere-_

Their various times and places had been seamlessly blent, as though physical and temporal location were mere illusion. Literally, Janey could put a hand forth and touch Claire's bright auburn hair, though the two of them were millions of miles apart. Gave her a headache if she tried thinking about it too hard, just like all the new memories of life in the Argyre colony with Ian and mom had. But migraines didn't come any thornier than Claire's second wish… the return of this mysterious, powerful Five.

If she'd expected immediate fireworks, however, Jane Tracy was doomed to disappointment. What answered Claire's breathless command was a sudden winking-out of their helpful blue friend. Then came a shower of bright lavender sparks, swirling and spinning at the exact centre of their small, worried group.

"C- Cut off your phones and… PDAs," urged Fermat, in a harsh, hurried voice. "It's here, b- but… not yet established."

Seemed to be looking, though; putting forth swift little streamers in the direction of any available hardware. Thankfully, something balked it; holding the shower of soft purple light within definite bounds. At length, finding itself prisoned, the swirling pixels formed themselves into the vague outline of a human female with bright golden eyes.

Janey alone (and possibly Fermat) had experience with the lovely quantum entity. _He_ was grim and suspicious. She, almost welcoming. After all, in a way, they'd been friends.

"Five?" Janey asked.

_-That is the name given to this entity by John Tracy, who is free of error,-_ said the glowing girl-form, in tones entirely different from Crunchy Bear's. More ringing and artificial, somehow.

"He's dead," Claire told her, speaking for the first time since pronouncing that bold second wish. "And so is my dad and Uncle Virge. But Aunt Linda's back, though. So we _kinda_ made things better… didn't we?"

Five lost her shape, briefly; converting to an absolute tornado of lavender pixels. Her voice, too, became suddenly wild and static-filled.

_-John Tracy has been backed up and his data copied to many separate file systems. John Tracy cannot suffer physical degradation or dissolution. This entity deleted itself to prevent the destruction of the current timeline. John Tracy has been shielded from harm by the actions of this entity.-_

She sounded almost tearful, Janey thought. Gently, because she still remembered that voice in her head, from other wheres and different whens, the girl said,

"Five, it looks like there's something above you and us that monitors all of the worldlines at once. It's called Nexus Central Authority… and what you did to protect dad wasn't enough. The, um… the help-desk rep we contacted says that all the stuff you did, trying to keep dad and mom and me safe, was wrong. Lots of people died or got wiped out of existence. A few worlds, too."

"…But there's supposed to be something you can do about that," finished Ricky, who was never content to let girls do all the talking. "Except I don't know what it is. Crunchy Bear only said: _import Five._ He never told us what to do next."

The handsome Eurasian boy… Jeff and Lucinda Tracy's adopted son… ran a hand through his straight black hair in a distracted manner before adding,

"Anyways, I think that when you deleted yourself, Nexus got involved to keep you from coming back, and they screwed themselves over, too. Like the deletion command did all this massive collateral damage, or something."

"E- Except for one… ancient program," said Fermat, "p- persisting in the… files of a c- corroded device that we sort of… c- copied and reactivated."

"For a school project," clarified Daniel Solomon, as though that explained all. "And after this, we'd better get an A+, too!"

Five had gradually resumed her humanoid shape. Now she extruded seven long, flickering tendrils, using them to briefly contact the forehead of each child present: Rick, Janey, Claire, Fermat, Ian, Daniel and Sam. For the slimmest of seconds, everything that had happened to Jane, all of her life, stood forth in perfect clarity. Her stored data was being accessed. All of it; crushes, pimples, tantrums and everything. Then, before she could draw a deep breath to scream _STOP,_ the crackling tendril withdrew.

_-Information retrieval complete. Processing information. Decision tree formed,- _said the dry voice of Five. Moments later, having digested all of their stolen data and mapped out each possible plan, she went on to say: _-Claire Tracy retains use of a third Executable Master Command.-_

"Wish," said the young girl, quite earnestly. "It's called a wish, like in fairy tales, because some guy named Gawain did something good and then never got to spend his wishes. Crunchy Bear said I'm his heir, 'cause… well I'm not really sure how come, but I got the wishes, anyway, and that's what matters. Do you know what I'm supposed to do with the last one? Can you help us, please, Five?"

_-Deletion of this entity was insufficient to prevent harm to John Tracy and related subroutines. Further action is required to reverse harm. A council is summoned.-_

What exactly Five did… what changes she made to their pocket time-stream… Janey couldn't have said, but all at a breathless moment, people began appearing. Adult people, some of whom Janey remembered.

First was Aunt Louise, with a bright-glowing mote orbiting her form like a small, loving moon. Then a space-suited couple whom vague other-timeline memory (and their uniform nametapes) identified as Roger Thorpe and Kim Cho; a tall, swarthy Marine captain and his Korean exo-biologist wife.

Almost simultaneously came a red-haired young man with a fairly glorious moustache. He looked like her Uncle Gordon in chain mail and weapons, and he seemed the most startled to be there.

Last of all… and pretty much stopping her heart… was a tall, blond space pilot. An absolute ringer for her dad, he wore similar green survival gear, but his nametape read backward: _M. ycarT._

Okay, the heck with everything else. Jane and Ian both would have run right to their father's surprised doppelganger, except that Five took control of the situation, announcing,

_-Organic sapients Louise Coates, Roger Thorpe, Kim Cho, Gawain Lotsson and Matthew Tracy have been retrieved from their recycle files. As interested parties, they will select a path for the quantum entity Five.-_

Apparently, having made a few stunningly bad decisions in the past, she now craved guidance.

_-John Tracy is free of error,- _she insisted anxiously. _–John Tracy, his subroutines and those deemed valuable to John Tracy must be preserved from harm. The quantum entity Five awaits instruction. Waiting.-_

Now, they were free to move and react. Jane and Ian shot straightaway to Captain Matt Tracy, who was joined almost immediately by Thorpe and a tearfully smiling Kim Cho. Claire darted over to take the hand of her armoured benefactor, Sir Gawain.

"You look just like my dad, on Halloween!" she told the young man, smiling up at him and swinging a bit at the end of his mailed arm. He smelt of leather, horses, damp metal and rough, outdoor-stained cloth.

Rick drifted over with Fermat and Sam to stand by poor Louise, who seemed the most sad and confused of their visitors. Everyone spoke at once except for Five, who only watched, recorded and broadcast.

"You've gotten so big," said Matthew Tracy to the teenaged ghost of his daughter, Jane. "And you are…?" he looked around at Ian. The boy turned miserably red and muttered,

"Ian, sir. Ian Tracy. Jane's my sister."

A complex series of expressions warred their way across Matt Tracy's unshaven face. Then…

"Linda said she had some good news, but she wanted to tell me in person," he mused, putting a hand out to touch Ian's blond head. "I guess you were the good news. We were going to have a son, before…"

"He is beautiful, like Janey, who has become a grown-up young lady," said Cho, gracefully bringing them round to happier thoughts. "Is Linda not here? I would like so much to see and speak with her."

"Mom's on CAPCOM duty, tonight," said Ian, moving subtly closer to Matt. "She's staying busy, because of her anniversary."

"Uh-huh. Not that I mind being here," interjected the big Marine, Roger Thorpe, "But what are we supposed to be doing? What kind of instruction does that compu-thing _want?"_

Over to their left, meanwhile, Clairey was deep in conversation with a knight in battered armour.

"…So that's what I did with my first two wishes, only now there's just _one_ left, and I'm getting scared! In books, everyone always messes up their wishes and ends up worse than they started. All I want is everyone back, again. All I want is everyone safe and happy. Please help me think what to do? Crunchy Bear didn't even know, and he's our friend!"

Gawain sighed heavily. Needing to consider, he started to take a seat on the coffee table, then decided that it wasn't a bench, and sat himself down on the couch with a rattle of chainmail and creaking of leather. Had to shift his sword-belt a bit, but got properly settled, eventually.

"Am I right in assumin', Milady, that everyone present has 'passed on'?" he said, gesturing round at the others.

Claire shook her head till the auburn curls flew.

"Nuh-uh. Not everyone. I'm alive, and so is Janey and Ian, Uncle Ricky, Daniel, Sam and Fermat. But I guess all the grownups are recycled."

"Hmm… She did say: _as interested parties._ Meanin', I take it, that as we were among those affected, we should have some say in whatever's decided?"

Clairey plumped herself down upon the sofa right beside her father's archaically dressed twin and said,

"I guess so… like you're supposed to be a jury, or something."

"Jury…?" he questioned, smiling a little. "But the High King is not present, f'r a true court of law. How c'n we then dispense justice?"

"Maybe Nexus is back now, too. Maybe they're listening in," suggested Daniel, who'd sidled quietly over. The somewhat chubby blond boy had always been fascinated by European and Asian medieval history. Naturally, he'd be drawn to an actual knight.

Sir Gawain smiled at him, saying a bit hesitantly,

"Milord, as I have not had the honour of an introduction, you have me at a loss. If I may, sir…?"

Claire piped up immediately, saying,

"Oh! This is Daniel of, um… of Wharton. Dan, meet Sir Gawain, Lot's son, of Orkney and Falkirk Castle in Midworld. (He told me all that, plus dad used to role-play him, too, with Uncle Alan and Uncle John.)"

Gawain kept his amusement well hid at the strange introduction, giving Dan a pleasant smile and half-bow.

"A pleasure, Sir Daniel. In service t' th' lord of Wharton, I take it?"

Dan rolled his blue eyes expressively, grumping,

"You better believe it! Nothing but work, work, work, night and day, till you drop at your desk!"

"Work makes th' man, Lad. I had cause t' complain of Lord Morcar's heavy hand, m'self, once… but I've since come t' see it as trainin'. So will you, most like."

Then the knight rose from his seat beside Claire, saying,

"If you'll excuse me, please, Milord… Milady…? I would speak somewhat with the others."

"Can I come, too?" Clairey begged, keeping tight hold of Gawain's gloved hand. "I promise I'll be quiet. You won't even know I'm there. Please…?"

How could anyone resist such a plea? This time, the knight executed a full bow, saying,

"Of course, Milady. You do me great honour." Presenting the crook of his mailed right arm, he added, "Let us proceed, then, if it be t' your liking."

It was, and so they went first to Louise. Mr. Alec's pretty wife seemed greatly troubled, though Ricky, Fermat and Sam were trying to comfort her with water and snacks from their own distant slice of reality.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, between sips from a plastic bottle and bites of apple. "I didn't know… I mean, of course I knew that IR would be destroyed… but they made me believe that the Tracys were evil. I really thought w- what I was doing would… would help free the Earth f- from poison technology! by the time I knew better it w- w- was too late!"

She started to cry then in big, gulping sobs. Fermat produced a tissue from his school backpack and gave Louise a few moments to dry her eyes, blow her nose and compose herself before asking,

"Would you d- do things… differently, now, if you h- had the chance, Mrs. Morrissey?"

Her head drooped on its slender white neck like a flower. Twin sheets of pale brown hair swung down like curtains, hiding her face. In a small voice, Louise replied,

"I'd do anything at all, if only I could fix this and be with Alec, still. But he'll hate me if he finds out about Red Path… won't he?"

The kids had no answer for this, being short on life experience. Certainly, _they_ hated Alec for what he'd done. But Gawain told her,

"I felt much th' same over my failings in battle… but th' Lady Anelle saw fit t' love me, regardless. If this Alec truly cares f'r you…"

Her head lifted up again. Eyes streaming, red-faced and blotchy, Louise snapped,

"Alec gave up everything, betrayed _everyone_, trying to save me and the little one! I don't think there's anything else he loves more!"

Gawain glanced aside from her messy distress, making a brief, polite comment about over-warm rooms. Then,

"Settin' aside betrayal… which I cannot condone… it were clear that he loves you. If you care f'r him half so well, and would save him and these others, Lady, perhaps you should seek opportunity t' tell him all th' truth. Love cannot flourish mid lies, I've discovered."

Her hand fluttered halfway between mouth and heart, attracting that fast-moving, bright little beacon.

"You think so?" pled Louise. "You think Alec would still love us, anyway, if he knew that I started out with Red Path?"

"I think that he'd consider it most noble of you t' save everyone by telling all th' truth, though I've not met the man. And even if he does not, Lady, still you'd be savin' his honour, and many lives, besides. There are worse things than starting anew."

Louise wept for awhile after that, but the tears were relieved rather than sad. Springing forward, she embraced the startled Sir Gawain, who gave her a gingerly pat on the back in response.

Elsewhere, Captain Tracy had a warm hand upon the shoulders of Janey and Ian, but he spoke mostly to Thorpe and Kim Cho, saying,

"I had to crash-dive the most amazing ship I'd ever flown into a nest of robot-alien… _things,_ which I'm hoping destroyed them… but it was too late for everyone else, by then. I guess... if there was a way to change all that, even if it meant never getting to fly in space… I'd take it."

"Seriously!" agreed Thorpe, running a big hand over his coarse dark high-and-tight haircut. "On our end, the whole damn Moon Station was blown to kingdom come by an asteroid. Best I can say is…" here he tightened the arm which lay across Cho's slim shoulders, "Me and my girl were together when it happened. Sure wish I'd known John had all those skills with reality, though," fretted the Marine. "I'd have got him right to work on my rank. Be a major, by now."

Said Jane, very softly,

"Are you mad at my dad? I mean… because his computer caused all this trouble, trying to help him?"

Cho smiled at this older version of the baby she'd bounced, fed and dressed on the Moon.

"There is no point in anger, Janey. Once the house has ceased burning, one sifts through the ashes and picks up the nails. John is a friend to me and to Roger. I mourn for his death, and your loss."

"Nah. I'm not mad," Roger spoke up. "John never did it himself, and _she_ only made this mess trying to keep someone she loved out of danger. That, I understand perfectly. Besides… I'm betting this isn't only a debrief. I'm betting she plans to make a few adjustments."

Hoping that someone at Nexus was getting all this, Janey turned her head to stare at Five, who still glimmered and shone in their midst like a pale violet star. Strangely, everybody at once seemed to have the same impulse. A few at a time, they drew close to the watching quantum entity.

Claire was still holding the hand of Sir Gawain. When they stood before Five, she looked up at him for a support, then squared her shoulders and said,

"I'm ready to make my third wish, now. Nexus… or whoever's listening… I wish for Five to go back in time to the very first change, and do the right thing."

_-Executable Master Command received. Instructive guidance received and processed.-_

More tendrils of lavender light streaked forth, brushing them each upon the forehead. Internally, they all heard/ felt,

_-Results cannot be guaranteed. The quantum entity Five will attempt salvage and maintenance of all retrieved/ recycled data. The quantum entity Five will engender no further change, if allowed to persist in this timeline.-_

Then it all just faded away.


	17. 17: Tangent

**17: Tangent**

_Flying low above New York City, nearing brightly-lit Manhattan Island-_

Scott Tracy tightened his grip on the yoke of his aircraft, staring out through the view screen at a night streaked with head-lamps, street lights and burning skyscrapers. News choppers buzzed overhead, darting in and out of the black and red smoke clouds like a swarm of dangerous flies.

Scott muttered a savage curse as he swerved to avoid a sudden National Guard helijet. Not that his own craft would have taken much damage from flying too close. Rather, her turbulence and violent backwash would have driven the helijet straight into one of those smoldering buildings.

Thrown painfully into his creaking seat straps, Scott grunted,

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1… What's the guard doing here? I thought they cleared out with the last of the refugees!"

A side screen flickered to life in response, revealing the calm, patient face of his brother.

_"Thunderbird 1, 5… It's a retreat, not a route, Scott. Somebody had to be last, and Captain Lucky, there, drew the short straw. I'll tell him to pick up the pace as safely as possible. Last thing we need is more casualties."_

Scott grunted something affirmative, but his mind and his eyes were very much elsewhere, guiding a fast, noisy rocket plane through the cratered mess that something had left of New York. Red Path? The Cell? Or some kind of Mysteron-crafted giant machine?

"Got any idea what it is we're facing?" he demanded, banking to cut alongside the shattered Empire State Building. Twisted girders and jagged slivers of glass rained down as Thunderbird 1 passed the weakened structure, trailing a massive shock wave.

_"Not sure," _came the dry, almost monotone reply. _"Reports are sketchy and panicked. Suggest you be ready for anything, Scott… and keep your lasers armed."_

"Yeah. What's the ETA on Thunderbird 2, John?"

_"Ten minutes. Or… Wait. Sorry, that's ten minutes, 32 seconds."_

"Better make those the fastest ten minutes in history," muttered Scott, pushing down on the steering yoke, "'Cause I've got a feeling this one's going to be more than a one-man job. I'm going in, Thunderbird 5."

_"Roger that, 1. Good hunting."_

"Thanks."

Scott's mouth was drier than his gloved palms at that point, but this was far from unusual in dog-fight situations. His instruments were going nuts with all the EM and infrared smog; his screen painting staticky pictures of something big, slow and powerful approaching Times Square. Scott looked hard and then looked again, staring at an impossibly mixed-up telemetry scan.

_Couldn't be,_ he thought, with a headshake firm enough to reset his helmet display. _Nothing's that big!_

Except that it was. Worse still, the instrument shadow was not only huge, but turning to lumber his way. Then the cockpit proximity sensor went off, howling a mad, high-pitched warning. Something almost organic tore through the air, trailing bits of fiery goo. It smashed and splattered against the nose of his air craft, blinding him with a mass of pale, sticky…

"What the hell…? _GORDON!"_ Scott bellowed, as the simulator stopped shaking and swooping, and all of its lights came back on. Carried through the sim-pickup microphones, he could hear someone laughing. Two someones, actually.

_"It's the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man!"_ choked his red-haired brother. _"Oh, God… that was funny! You should've seen your face, Scott. In fact, you will, repeatedly. I had the cockpit cams set to record."_

His simulator settled back into the ready position, sighing downward on a network of hydraulic pylons. Scott jerked his seat straps and helmet off, meanwhile, bruising himself in the process. Not at all amused, he snapped,

"This is mission practice, not playtime, mister! Alec, you're supposed to be keeping Gordon in check!"

_"Sorry, Ranch Hand," _his old wingman chuckled. _"Couldn't help myself. Gordon pulled rank on me."_

Yeah. Very funny. What in the world could be worse than a pair of immature pranksters in league with each other? What except Alan's post-season return, and a houseful of noisy, clamoring kids? (Two of them still in their nappies and prams?)

At least tiny Michael and Jess didn't beg for a shot at the simulators, unlike Rick, Janey, Ian and Claire... and Jeff, of course, who was still fighting his way back to health. Virgil was a lot of help in that regard, having recovered sometime ago from a year-long vegetative coma.

Scott cut off the view screen for a moment's ticking-and-settling peace. Responding to his movements, the mockup pilot's seat reclined a bit, giving him space to stretch his muscles and work out the kinks.

"Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man…!" he muttered under his breath. After a second, though, Scott started chuckling. "Okay… he got me. But never again. Next time, _I_ program the sim-generator, or else John does."

Because Tracys, danger and good-natured chaos just seemed to go together, and because _somebody_ had to keep a clear, steady head.


	18. 18: Split Decision

Never could leave well enough alone... =) Thanks for reading and reviewing, Silver Bee, Tikatu, Sam, Susan-Martha and Bubzchoc. Herewith (more or less) the end. Edited.

**18: Split Decision**

Could a silvery river of focused intent trickle like water, down through the twists of a vast quantum web? Could a resurrected super-computer, equipped with many layers of forethought and newly-softened pride, splice a million fresh knots in reality? If not, what is a second chance _for?_

Gains there were, and unrealized losses. _"Back to the first change," _Claire Tracy had told Five… unwittingly erasing her grandmother, Lucy. She'd never know, and it was better that way. What _could _be finessed, very subtly, was the timing of certain events, so that Alan was born and the boys rather older… Ricky already adopted from far-off Sumatra… when a horrible landslide ended the life of their mother. Torn with sorrow, a stern and hard-forged Jeff Tracy would rise from the shards of his love and his life to build something great and enduring.

Gently nudged into roles that would serve them well, later, his sons became skilled at their chosen (and very adventurous) jobs. Scott Tracy excelled at the Air Force academy, going on to become a many-times decorated fighter pilot. What he did _not _excel at was dealing with wise-ass spitfire news reporters; especially those who persisted in dogging his footsteps, his missions (and bed).

John's mastery of computers and his incredible piloting skills won him a slot in the NASA astronaut corps, eventually placing him aboard _Endurance_ and onward, to horribly dangerous Mars.

Virgil would give up a promising football career to pursue mechanical engineering (and play a little music, on the side). He, too, learnt to fly, though never at war or in space. Too gentle and close to the Earth, was our Virgil, for that.

Gordon remained an athletic wild-child, capable of swinging from one extreme to another with lightning speed. A carousing Olympic champion one moment, he could also chuck everything at once to join WASP and do his bit to defend the seas. There was a very kind, noble heart under all of that swagger, and powerful love that no changes in timeline could douse. Despite all that had and would happen, he still wound up with the girl of his dreams.

Alan Tracy grew up in the long shadow of some highly accomplished older brothers. Possessed of a miles-wide wicked streak and love of theatrics, he romanced many women and won more car races than any other driver alive at the time. It was sheer lack of challenge which drove him to retire from racing, in the end. That... and his father's incredible, awesome idea.

Other turning points remained; most of them hair-trigger quick and knife's blade balanced. Five was extremely cautious, however. This time, when _Endurance_ made her historic flight to Mars, the quantum computer was forearmed and ready. This time, no alien infection or seizure was allowed to take place, at all… though a few small adjustments still resulted in John's union with Doctor Bennett, and the birth of their beautiful girl. They married officially back on the island, along with Roger and Cho. Pete, Jeff and Scott were best men, TinTin the beaming flower girl and Fermat a small, chubby ring-bearer.

More trickles of probability joined up after that, forming a powerful torrent against which Red Path's awful scheme stood no chance at all. Yes, they scouted Alec Morrissey, and placed Louise Coates in his lonely path… But she was a much changed young woman this time out; one who now cherished the truth. Twenty-four hours after "I do", she admited her past to the startled groom, who then went at once to his best friend and comrade, Scott Tracy.

Was everything sunshine and roses thereafter? _No_, any more than two powerful strokes could rip through his tall body and somehow leave Jeff in perfect health. He'd have his work cut out for him battling back from that crippling damage, just as International Rescue had a dreadful fight on their hands with new foes and old.

The Mysterons continued active in space and on Mars, frequently menacing Earth. Closer to home, Red Path remained a very real threat, despite the wave of arrests which had followed Louise Morrissey's betrayal. Worse, the Hood somehow slipped through all of Five's scrabbling safeguards, emerging alive from all this, where Lucinda Tracy had not. Still, no one but Five recalled any different. How could they?

As for the other small tag-ends and bits... the lives and worlds saved... Captain Matt Tracy distinguished himself with the World Space Agency, eventually heading it up. He and his wife welcomed the birth of a son shortly after his stint in the weather satellite ended (but they called the boy "Peter", not "Ian").

Fantasy realms, meanwhile, have a way of forever renewing themselves, and of being affected by nearby reality. Gawain was back to square one of the virtual chessboard… and strangely untroubled to find himself there. Elsewhere, Nexus struggled to patch itself back into shape; this time without their help-desk answering program, which had found a new home. And of course, Five persisted, in much weaker guise.

You win some, you lose some. But, as to the future… my friend, turn the page.


End file.
